


To Crash in Technicolour

by percolating



Series: Dovetail [3]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Depression, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, I'm not lying this time I swear, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post-Time Skip, Slow Build, the timeline is messed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-05-11 01:50:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 49,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5609347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/percolating/pseuds/percolating
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael had always told himself he’d never get close enough for it to matter. But then he did and the God he didn’t believe in decided he had too much and now all he wants to do is take everything back and forget it all ever happened, but the world has a penchant for throwing salt on wounds still open and burning after three goddamn years of just letting him live with it.</p><p>Gavin is happy, but not really. Mental health is not so easily measured, but he swears he isn’t as much of a mess as he used to be. And yet sometimes, he feels like he could collapse without warning, with the weight of a grief that he’s sure he’s never even felt.</p><p>How do you miss something you don’t even remember having in the first place?</p><p>Sequel to <em>Like Colours Meshing, Incoherently.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what...a long..summary.... ~~fuck~~
> 
> I'm back! Happy new year, I wish you all the good things :D 
> 
> Before we start, you should probably read [Like Colours Meshing, Incoherently](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4466768/chapters/10150559/) first (if you haven't already.) There's also a [raywood oneshot](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5569420) that fits into the timeline before the sequel begins.
> 
> All set? Thanks for continuing with this story with me! (':

 

“Hey, love! Did you miss me?”

A wide, shit-eating grin accompanies the words.

Michael snorts despite opening his arms to the British boy skipping towards him, who promptly flung his skinny frame into his arms. “No way, eat shit.” His voice came out muffled against the coat the other boy was wearing.

Gavin laughs, head tossed back to the wind that was whipping around them on the rooftop of a high rise. He ran a hand through his sandy hair as he leaned back from the hug to take a look at the curly-haired boy. “Oh, Michael,” he said affectionately. “You don’t really want that.”

He’s right, of course, but that’s how they’ve always been. Michael fights a smile as he felt soft lips press against his temple in a kiss. He snuggles into Gavin and begins to say, “I love yo–“

 “But you know, I don’t miss you, not at all,” Gavin suddenly goes, and Michael barks out a laugh again as he looks up as if to say, _alright, we’re over this thread of the joke._ After all, they’re going out. What’s more to say? But Gavin’s face is solemn and it freezes Michael’s insides more than the bitter winter wind does his fingertips.

 _Why are we here again?_ The thought occurs to Michael and he looks around, anxiety welling up inside him at the unfamiliar setting.

“Really, I don’t. Can’t.” Gavin has a faraway look in his eyes as he backs away, taking his warmth with him, hands shoved in his coat pockets. He shakes his head, hair flying as he turns away.

“Gavin?” Michael shouts, the wind picking up and shrieking unbearably loud around them. He takes a step forward, only to be pushed back. Shivering uncontrollably, he tries again. “Gavin? _Gavin?_ ”

When the British boy glances over his shoulder, his bright sea-green eyes are faded to something duller; washed-out. Strange. He looks confused for a split second and he hesitates.

“Who are you again?”

Michael’s words won’t come out – can’t. They’re caught halfway up his throat and his response lodges there against his shock, choking him, as Gavin takes a step back, and another, and another, until he’s on the edge of the rooftop somehow with no fence in sight –

He falls backwards off the high rise, lips twisted in a faint smile. _Michael,_ they mouth.

 

Michael bolts upright in bed in a cold sweat. He trembles harshly, breathing erratic. “F-fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck,_ ” he mutters in a cracked voice, shaking hands carding through his messy curls and rooting themselves there in clenched fists as he doubled over on his duvet. The world is crumbling before him so he squeezes his eyes shut but emerald eyes stare back from behind his eyelids.

His eyes fly open again.                                     

_Don’t lose it. Don’t lose it. Breathe._

The alarm clock on the stand reads 4:26 AM in blurry red.

Michael’s vision is swimming and his stomach turns but he manages to draw in a shuddering breath. _Yeah, that’s good. In. Hold. Out._ His heart is still hammering away at an unforgiving pace in his chest and he can still feel Gavin’s touch as if it was real, but it’s some miniscule comfort that at least, this time, he’s not crying.

 _It’s the small things,_ Michael muses dimly as he touched a hand to his forehead. It’s been _months_ since he’s had a dream like that. He was so sure his dumb fucking brain was over making up these shitty scenarios by now. It’s been _years_ , for fucks sake. And logically, it shouldn’t be something this disastrous to start.

Obviously, he was wrong.

“Fuck,” Michael says again, raking his hands over his freckled face as he fell back onto his pillow, slowly calming down.

But it’s hard to fall back asleep when the shade of the ceiling in shadows matches the darkening sky in his dream so perfectly. Forget the familiar, sketchy noises coming from upstairs and behind too-thin walls, he got used to those a long time ago. Michael rolls over and averts his eyes, but he doesn’t close them again.

There’s a baby loudly crying in the unit across the hall by the time it’s five in the morning and Michael wants almost nothing more than to just punt the child out a window so he can sleep, even if he only lives on the first floor, but his body feels heavy from the conjured, brief dream-happiness that dripped out of him all over the floor as soon as he woke so he stays in bed and tries not to sob.

Eventually, his stomach growls so loudly he cramps. So he automatically swings his legs off the bed.

 _Force of habit. Don’t know why I’m bothering._ And it’s true, because there’s only a pack of beer, a travel-sized thing of vodka, some milk, a bottle of mustard, and a single apple sitting in his fridge. He takes the fruit anyways and reminds himself to grocery shop sometime later in the week. _Yeah, fat chance of that._

And it takes him back to his last years of university, back when he spent his grocery money at the bar every Friday night because he didn’t have much to do anymore. How Friday nights turned into Thursday nights turned into Wednesday nights and midday runs and then he just started frequenting the bar nearly every day. _The bartender knew me by name, holy shit._

Michael chuckled quietly as he took a bite out of the slightly soft apple. He cringes as he spits it out. Yeah, it’s not hard to be hungry, he was almost always hungry back then but it was never as bad as the feeling in his stomach whenever he accidentally thought about –

Michael’s hand reaches for the phone as he feels bile rise up in his throat and before he even realizes what he’s doing, he’s dialing a number he shouldn’t be dialing. The dumb baby’s crying loudly in the background and at first, Michael doesn’t even register that the call connected, but when he does he hangs up almost immediately.

Not before he hears a breathy, laughing voice on the other end, though, and after a moment of stunned silence that _shit, that actually happened,_ Michael yells profanities to himself in the small space of his shitty hole-in-the-wall apartment until his throat is hoarse and he decides that it’s for the best to call in sick for work today.

 _My boss is probably gonna think I’m hungover,_ the curly-haired man groans, but he can’t really do anything about it at this point. _I’m a fucking trainwreck and I need to get my shit together._

But he doesn’t, of course, and when the phone rings a little while later, Michael chooses to take a shot of vodka instead of picking up; he sits in front of it as it rings and rings and _rings_ in the dimly lit living room. Seven o’clock finds Michael Jones passed out on the living room floor, sprawled out with a voicemail blinking a small red light on his landline, waiting.

Now, this is arguably a good thing, because timing matters and if Michael had picked up just then, it all would have been over before it began. But he didn’t, _of course_ , and a tanned, sandy-haired man awake a couple miles away in the same city is left confused at the phone call he abruptly received before forgetting about it entirely as he notices the time, gingerly removing an arm thrown over him and dressing to leave his one-night stand without another word.

Michael Jones will get fired from his contract job a little while later, and things will fall apart for him after that. But then again, things have fallen apart before, and the world has a funny way of making things right again if a chance is taken. (Or exponentially worse)

And Geoff Ramsey hopes, as he fumbles his way through some rushed words left after a more-than-pissed-off sounding pre-recording of a familiar, slightly raspy voice stating, _you’ve reached Michael Jones, please leave a message,_ that it’s the former and not the latter because he was feeling something awful and a confused Gavin Free somehow wound up stumbling into the Ramseys’ home in the early morning despite having moved out months ago. _Habit._

And because, the way he looked at it, this all ended three years ago like a video game where they had all almost gotten to the finish point but fell a little short. But they didn’t die, not exactly, and he figures, he _hopes_ , it just needs something as simple as just starting over again at the beginning.

After all, Geoff Ramsey isn’t the type of person to let something like this go while Gavin Free is, but only because he didn’t have much of a choice.

He knows Michael Jones would like nothing more in the entire fucking world than to let it all go.

But it only took one phone call.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New setting, post-time skip, with (hopefully) better writing and (probably not, but we can hope) a more definitive plot this time around! Wooooo
> 
> Stick around for the pain and the happy ending I promised you thirty-five chapters ago?
> 
> Creds to [ProbablyCats](http://agender-washingtons.tumblr.com) for the video game metaphor, which worked beautifully into this (': 
> 
> HXL


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey my dudes (^: I really don't want to make it a habit of writing lengthy A/Ns, but shit, there's some things that really need acknowledging. A lot has changed since LCM! Sorta! (I'm amazed, honestly.) 
> 
> **i.** I now have a beta! I can't emphasize enough how incredible [Kri](http://screwthisletsjustdrinktea.tumblr.com/) has already been - thanks so much for putting up with my shitfest of a writing style and crippling self-doubt (haha) I love chatting with you <3
> 
>  **ii.** Also, don't know how the heck this announcement escaped my mind until now, but can I bring your attention to a [gift fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5538983) by armadil_Lo that said everything I wanted to say for Michael directly after the ending of LCM? Perfect, disjointed style. The short, sweet almost-interaction breaks my heart, and the imagery of it all is just...it's AU canon, okay.
> 
>  **iii.** Lastly, a goddamn [PLAYLIST](http://raagehappy.tumblr.com/post/136677766119/)? FOR LCM? The album art is absolutely fantastic, and the playlist is so [clutches chest], y'know? The TITLE and how NICE it's made to sound, so fitting, so...ugh. Curated by the lovely [Aron](http://raagehappy.tumblr.com/), with contributions by [Carly](http://archiveofourown.org/users/thatoneshippernamedCarly)! 
> 
> I don't know how I came to deserve all these good things, but here we are. Thanks for reading and for your patience! Please check these out! Enjoy the chapter. (':

 

By the time Michael realizes what a god awful state of affairs he had thrust himself into, the situation is already more or less unsalvageable; one where he’s wading neck deep in shit and – to put it in the simplest of terms – completely _fucked._

He was doing fine and dandy before this. (Well, not fine as in _fine,_ but –)

Michael concludes very quickly that the universe hates him.  

In front of him is Geoff and in any other circumstance he would have been at least _slightly_ glad of it (after three years and all that), but it takes every ounce of self-control in Michael’s body to keep himself from killing the guy with a butter knife or something.

“What the actual fuck are you trying to pull?” Michael snarls venomously, with absolutely no love in his voice.

They’re in what looks like a lounge, complete with a coffee maker and a multitude of mugs with a variety of loud designs. It would be a lovel– _nice_ place to hang out in, especially for the purposes of a heartfelt reunion with who may as well be Michael’s best parental figure, except he currently has said parental figure violently shoved up against the wall by the collar of his t-shirt.

The scruffy older man looks stressed and fretful but his expression is missing the one thing Michael needs to see: apology. Geoff shrugs. He _shrugs._ Michael is so goddamn furious at the entire situation – at himself, mostly – that he curls his hand into a fist and decks Geoff right in the face. The resulting sound is weak and falls flat.

It wasn’t quite as satisfying as a stabbing would have been, which is probably why Michael’s temples start to throb with a looming headache.

Geoff rubs his jaw derisively. “Guess I deserved that.”

“You deserve a lot fucking worse, old man,” Michael hisses, just as he becomes conscious of the fact that, years ago maybe, he would have been able to knock Geoff to the floor. _Holy shit, I’m so malnourished._ _Ray could probably take me._

But the thought of the Puerto Rican sends Michael back into shaking fury. “You had no right, Geoff. _No_ right, you fucking hear me?” His voice rises in both volume and pitch and he doesn’t even care anymore if everyone can hear from the next room over.

Geoff almost, _almost_ relents to the wrecked expression that passes across Michael’s face. An apology is already forming on his tongue because _dicks, this worked out a lot better in my head,_ when a voice interrupts them.

“Hey, everything alright? You’ve both been gone for eons – Christ, what happened to your face?”

Michael visibly stiffens at the lilting tone. Stuffing his stinging knuckles into his jeans and avoiding eye contact like it’s the plague (as if _that_ could save him now) as he shuffles out of the room after Geoff, he glumly thinks about how much he fucking hates his life right now.

 

The very second that Michael had finally mustered up the nerve to actually listen to his voicemail – _precisely_ the second it started playing – he had immediately known it was going to be a bad fucking idea.

Granted, the reasons why he thought so at the start of the recording and the reasons after it ended were entirely different, but nevertheless. Still a bad. Fucking. Plan.

(Not that he cared enough, oh no.)

Following a shitty day of getting laid off (bullshit, they just wanted any excuse to –), slapped with a speeding ticket for driving 90 on the interstate (literally _everyone_ drives ninety, cocksucker, where did you live before this? Fucking Canada? –), almost arrested for “displaying flagrant disrespect” for a police officer (he deserved it, anyways), and – to top it all off – forcibly enlisted by his neighbour to help fix a flooding bathroom (I’m an _engineer,_ Debbie, not a goddamn plumber –), by the time he got home Michael was already feeling harassed enough that he (almost) couldn’t care less _what_ the goddamn phone call had in store for him.

So he hit play as he fell onto his sofa, drinking some scotch at three in the afternoon. Which turned out to be fitting, he supposed.

“ _Uh, hey buddy. It’s me, Geoff. Ramsey, yeah. I uh, it’s been a long time and I figured I’d…anyways. I have a job opening! …I mean, if you wanna come and give it a run. We’re literally just gonna dick around and play video games. Like old days. Except I’ll pay you.”_

A lengthy pause.

“ _Shit, that sounds dumb as fuck, I gotta think of a better way of selling that…Seriously, give me a call back or something, will ya?”_

_Beep._

Geoff’s pitch was cryptic in an irritating way that made Michael want to break something; it was vague as all hell, and definitely didn’t make much sense.

Yet Michael, at the time, thought, _what the heck. Why not._ Ignoring the little voices in his head that all screamed of how terrible this idea was, his one reigning emotion of utter fucking relief that the voice message was American rather than British, through and through, definitely tipped the scales in Geoff’s favour.

It might have also had something to do with how Michael was suddenly unemployed and had bills to pay (fucking being an _adult,_ amirite?), but whatever the rationale at the time was, it didn’t really matter.

Although, come to think of it, the whole deal made a bit more sense when Michael faintly recollected hearing something about Geoff and Jack starting up a new branch of some entertainment company that was huge on the internet.

 _So that’s what they’re doing now._ _Only they could pull a stunt like that off out of buttfuck nowhere._

That, in turn, also made him remember learning about Slo Mo Guys taking off; Gavin and his friend Dan having the time of their lives back in England fucking around with slow motion and cinematography. Getting famous, all that jazz. Pursuing his– _their_ dreams.

Michael had snorted at the news. “Glad he’s fuckin’ happy,” he had muttered to himself, a hint of a smile on his face.

And that was it, clean and simple. He had absolutely no desire to scratch past the surface of the topic, to learn more about any of it.

But the _point_ was, beside the derision he had over meeting even Jack and Geoff again, Michael did sort of miss them. He missed _it_ , missed that one _good_ year he had in university. _Holy hell, don’t lie to yourself. It was excellent. It was fucking excellent, all of it._

So Michael had texted Geoff, childish excitement welling up in his chest akin to how a kid overflows with enthusiasm at the idea of cake or a new playground, and if nothing else, he really should’ve at least fucking asked who he was going to be working with.

...Yeah, that was one of a multitude of mistakes that composed the first step he took from being blissfully detached from, well, _all of that_ , to fucking wallowing in it.

Where _it_ was synonymous with _shit_ , which was more or less just regret and despair, at least in Michael’s eyes.

The biggest mistake he made was that he went into it all completely blind, with too many base assumptions.

“That’ll get ya,” Geoff would have laughed, Michael imagined, if he wasn’t the one fucking responsible for setting all of this up in the first place. Because Michael had _assumed_ Geoff would be over shit by now. He had _assumed_ this was just a friendly knock on the door, a little “hey, my dude, let’s get together and catch up”, or maybe even an apology discreetly packaged as a job offer for things of the past.

Michael had _assumed_ Geoff had the heart to mostly leave him in peace, or as much as he could while dragging him to go work for him in “a test run, that’s what this is gonna be, Michael. You don’t have to stay. Feel it out for, say, two weeks. If you don’t like it, I’ll give you a paycheck and you don’t have to come back.” Looking back, Geoff’s flexibility and nonchalant air should’ve been suspicious as fuck, too.

Michael had _assumed_ everyone he knew from university had more or less all went their separate ways since, because holy fuck, what’s the likelihood of a social circle remaining intact after an accident like that, three years later? After all, even with special circumstances aside, people rarely keep the same company for so long.

But lastly, he had _assumed_ a certain British prick was all the way across the fucking Atlantic Ocean, some five thousand miles away, in the goddamn UK; somewhere in _England._ That he’d gone back. And stayed there.

That reassurance was what Michael fell back on with confidence when he picked up the phone to shoot Geoff a message, when he got into Geoff’s car the next morning, and when he unwaveringly followed the older man into a large building not far from everything else in Austin, Texas, that had “ROOSTER TEETH” atop its entrance in blocky, white letters.

And of course, he was dead fucking wrong.

 

“Wait. Wait. Michael’s – Michael’s coming _here?”_ Ray burst out, ripping his headphones off and flying out of his chair.

He got a nod in response. A single fricking nod. With no further explanation offered up.

“As in _here_ here? …Oh hooooly fuck, we’re in for it now. We are so screwed. He’s going to fucking kill us all, I can see it.” The Puerto Rican gestured dramatically, making an arc in front of him in a sweeping hand motion. “Headliner: mass shooting at internet company headquarters! Dozens dead! Michael Jones culpable! Everyone deserved it!”

Only to be more or less ignored. He earned a soft chuckle, but even his own boyfriend – _my fucking boyfriend!_  – just gave him a sympathetic look before returning to fixing whatever it was he was fixing under that desk with the nightmare shit-ton of wires.

“Uh, actually Ray, he’s headed here right now, with Geoff.”

 _“What?”_ Ray just about shrieked, now ready to leave the office and never return. Or roll into the sun. Whichever would be easier. “Forget Ry, you’re all traitors. All of you. _Traitors._ ” _Why the fuck doesn’t anyone_ tell _me things around here?_

But then he had no choice but to fall silent as Jack gave him a warning look, light footsteps signalling someone’s return from a bathroom trip. And in hindsight, Ray should’ve been taking the time to practice a way to somehow silently convey _I HAD NO PART IN THIS_ to Michael either through his facial expression or telepathically, but instead, he was readying an escape route.

(The telepathy would’ve never worked anyways.)

Unfortunately, by the time Ray was packed up and about to haul his skinny little Puerto Rican ass out of there, he could already hear Geoff’s distinctive voice travelling from the hallway. He could also hear what was unmistakably the voice belonging to an irritated, yet intrigued, ex-best friend who he had been certain he would never be able to see again.

“Shit, I have to hand it to you. This place is _sweet,_ Geoff!”

“Fucking right? The best thing Gus has helped me set up, hands down. You have to meet him sometime, he’s great – but you gotta meet some co-workers first, buddy.”

_Ray Narvaez Jr., you are about to be a dead, dead man._

He did his best to distance himself from the root of the problem as the pair closed the distance to the office door, but fuck, this was his _job_. There wasn’t really any form of escape at this point. His name’s listed in all the credits and everything. His face plastered on video along with everyone else's, all over the web. _When it gets on the internet, it’s there forever._

Ray groaned.

Leave it to Geoff, overwrought as ever (and as angst-filled – or maybe even more so – as any teenager going through puberty), to fucking drag _this_ dead cat out of its grave. Ray wept internally at the thought of the inevitably approaching shitstorm.

_I just wanted to play video games for a living._

 

Michael was markedly impressed with what Geoff and Jack had managed to wedge their way into, just from what he saw in the short ten minute stroll they took through the company building. It was a shitty, half-assed tour, but he shrugged it off because _holy –_ Geoff and Jack were living the _dream._

But when Geoff turned the doorknob into the Achievement Hunter office, as he called it, and announced “alright guys, here’s the new talent,” to no less than _three_ fucking familiar faces with nobody else in sight, Michael was immediately ready to call it quits –

“This is Michael, guys.”

– and start looking for the hidden cameras, because _shit,_ Geoff got him good.

There was a painfully pregnant pause.

“Haha, fuckin’ hilarious,” Michael deadpanned, rooted in place in the doorway as he set his eyes on Jack Pattillo, who he had expected. And then Ryan Haywood, under a desk, who he most certainly had _not_ expected. “You didn’t have to pretend to give me a job to get me to see these guys, Geoff. I would’ve come. Maybe.”

Finally, he landed on Ray, who had eyes as wide as saucers and looked positively in hysterics.

And guilty as all hell.

 _Well, it_ had _all seemed too good to be true._

Michael laughed shortly. “How much did this stunt cost you?”

Without breaking eye contact with Ray, Michael already knew right off the bat that he wouldn’t be able to provide him with any sort of explanation. But Ryan, Jack, motherfucking _Geoff_ , yeah, they would –

“What stunt? Hang on, what’re we talking about?”

It came from the corner opposite everyone else, to Michael’s immediate right.

“Dicks, I told you to pay attention! I said something important was gonna happen this morning, but you never listen,” Geoff started to complain, but his voice was drowned out by the clear echo of the accented question in Michael’s ear.

_Wot stunt? ‘ang on, wot’re we tolking about?_

Oh,

Oh.

_Oh._

Cut to Geoff, who froze when Michael froze, the older man’s hands suddenly clapped together with a shining gaze fixed between Michael and the owner of the voice like he was about to bear witness to some motherfucking miracle.

Which was funny, because the first coherent thing that flew through Michael’s mind was _oh fuck, for all that is holy, please, God, Jesus Christ, the Virgin Mary – literally anyone,_ anyone _but him._ Seriously – Michael would’ve seriously considered converting back to Roman Catholicism (hell, he’d consider converting to any and every religion possible) if it meant that he could be instantly teleported to anywhere other than where he was. Somewhere preferably on the other side of the fucking world.

Or to just get erased from existence. Yeah, that sounded good, too.

 _So this was what it was all about_ , he thought.

Michael could already feel the anger starting to well up and bubble over, but his mouth was dry and out of words and time seemed to stop in that instant. He turned mechanically towards the source, not knowing how in holy hell he initially missed the figure that was sitting, back turned, at the desk closest to the fucking door.

_Just another mistake to add to the growing pile, yep._

Michael didn’t know whether to start laughing or crying as he watched the man swivel around in his recklessly tilted chair and hop off ungracefully, tanned hand already extended. _Of course, how could I have forgotten? Friendliness emanates from him in waves._

Brushing back wild hair that was darker than Michael remembered, he flashed a blinding smile that was all charm – turned up to eleven – and no sincerity.

Michael swallowed hard.

“Hello mate, name’s Gavin Free. Nice to meet you!” 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"There's nowhere else for me to go_   
>  _Except back to you just one last time_
> 
> _You're the shit and I'm knee deep in it_   
>  _You're the shit and I'm knee deep in it"_
> 
> Backwards Walk / **Frightened Rabbit**
> 
> Till next time.
> 
> HXL


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !! LACK OF LONG A/N !!  
>  Amazing, truly

_Nobody special._

The first thing that goes through Gavin’s head when he turns to face the curly-haired new talent standing in the doorway. (The second memorable thought is _what an absolute tosser,_ right after walking in on that little row in the lunch area that nobody uses.)

Maybe it’s the harsh, unreasonable anger, the man all sharpness and angles turned outwards as if he has something to prove, maybe it’s the fact that Geoff has blood in his mouth and his teeth seem to sit more crooked than before, but nah -

At first glance, Gavin doesn’t think much anything of Michael at all.

It’s obvious that Geoff’s plans – whatever they were – haven’t exactly been smooth sailing. The older man looks downtrodden for the rest of the day, the new bloke sticking to Jack like glue and avoiding conversation whenever possible. He also makes a distinctive effort to avoid his temporary desk between Ray and Gavin, but everyone seems to take his behaviour with a grain of salt.

No complaints.

Gavin frowns to himself as he watches Michael grudgingly pull up a chair beside Ray while Jack leaves the room.

 _If you’re so bloody cranky about all this, why are you here?_ Gavin is more than a little peeved. _I cannot_ believe _Geoff hired this git, this_ random. _We’re not just Achievement Hunter now, we’re like a family. I don’t like it. He’s an intruder. Plus, Jeremy was getting in content more –_

“Gavin. _Gavin._ My dude, get your fucking head out of the clouds.”

The British man blinks, his thoughts dissipating.

“Oh, sorry!” He smiles automatically, spinning to face Ray. “What of it, need something?”

“Uh, want to finish editing the LP I started working on because Jack told me– so I can show Michael files and shit?”

See, even Ray’s already terrified as all hell of the bloke; he’s practically disintegrating before Gavin’s eyes from stress. “Look, why don’t I do that?” Gavin offers, feeling bad for the guy. Also, if he remembers correctly, the GTA LP Ray was working on has been more than a minor headache, with overlapping audio and too many cut-screens to count. _No thanks._ “Anything specific we should start with?”

Ray’s glasses slip off his nose as he shakes his head hard. “No, oh god Gavin. It’s okay.“

“No, really! I can do it,” Gavin insists. “Mate, why don’t you come over here to my desk…?” He pauses, staring at the ticked off man with the head of curly hair who’s determinedly looking away and acknowledging none of this. Rare irritation flares up in Gavin.

“Michael,” Ray provides quickly, glancing back furtively. He straightens his glasses, but looks no less nervous. “But seriously, dude, can you just do the LP? It’s what Jack wanted.”

“No, no,” Gavin replies brightly, maybe a bit _too_ brightly. “I would _love_ to get to know Michael a bit better, I feel like I haven’t talked to him proper at all.”

To that, the man named Michael stuffs his hands into his hoodie pockets and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “I certainly don’t have any intention of getting to know _you_ better, you dumb fuck” and Gavin has to mentally kick himself, hard, to prevent himself from doing anything he might regret.

 _An absolute bloody tosser,_ Gavin decides, fuming internally, as he turns away and hears Michael pull up a chair beside him. _He could at least_ pretend _to be nice._

But Michael sits statue-still next to him while he explains file locations, basic editing styles that they work with, recording schedules, etcetera, and doesn’t say a single word.

Even when Gavin _tries_ to make friendly, to start talking video games and such, the man is more or less unresponsive.

“So, Michael,” Gavin asks. “We record a lot of GTA 5 plays, but we also do a lot of Minecraft – which Ray is starting to hate – but it’s still a thing. Do you know how to play?”

Michael’s spine is rigid when he replies. “Uh, y-yeah, I’ve played Minecraft before.”

He speaks through gritted teeth _like I’m bloody pulling teeth, Christ,_ and when Gavin persists with a beaming smile and “brilliant! You don’t know how _hard_ it was to teach some of these guys back when we were in uni, they were so bloody thick –“

The brunet just shrugs, slouching further and further down in his chair as though he wants nothing more than to disappear.

He has no good points, as far as Gavin can tell.

Which they can’t have in this line of work, for obvious reasons.

Later in the day Gavin smirks to himself as he comes to this realization, cheerfully wishing the man a good night as Geoff drops him off at home.

 _Yeah, he’ll get fired soon enough, anyways._ And then things will go back to normal, maybe.

Except there’s a suspiciously hollow feeling in Gavin’s gut as he thinks this but he misinterprets it for that other, more familiar emptiness, so he simply grabs his cell and makes a call.

“Hey Turney, want to go out tonight? I’m bored.”

 

The next day changes everything, though.

Jack insists on herding all staff into the office and setting up recording as soon as everyone gets in for the morning.

“We should get Michael into some content as a pilot to get some early feedback,” he explains as he nudges an extra microphone in Ryan’s direction. Ryan grumbles good-naturedly but takes it anyways.

“Well, I can’t be here for it. I have –“

“New morning lectures Tuesdays and Thursdays, we all know,” Geoff points out with a pout. “As if Ray ever shuts up about it when he leaves to meet you.” Ray resolutely puts on his headphones and busies himself with some plugs, pretending he didn’t hear.

Ryan’s lips quirk up into a smile and he nods. “I’ll help finish setting up the extra desk, though. You said you wanted Jeremy in on this?”

To which Michael jerks his head up because what are the chances that this Jeremy is –

“Hey morning, heard we’re doing some GTA today?” A shorter man with a beard walks in, effectively answering Ryan's question, looking like a complete douche with his aviators and jacket. But he takes them off and a dorky smile slowly worms its way onto his face.

Definitely Jeremy Dooley.

Michael groans quietly to himself because it’s as if the entire fucking population of UoT – or at least the portion that Gavin knew (come to think of it, that _is_ the entire population) – had migrated to Rooster Teeth after graduating. _What the fuck are they all doing here? Did everyone burn their diplomas? …On second thought, the job market is so in the gutter that it wouldn’t matter, I guess._

Jeremy stops for a second at Michael’s hand awkwardly raised in a silent, half-assed greeting, but Jack or Geoff must have told him what’s going on because then he takes a moment to introduce himself even though he must’ve gotten drunk with Michael at least a dozen times in second year. Not exactly someone new.

Off on the sidelines, Gavin is eyeing the pair intently, mistaking the awkward exchange and Michael’s wordlessness for tension and looking satisfied with everything. He glances at Geoff, who has his arms crossed and an anxious frown etched into his features as he watches on, too.

 _Yep,_ Gavin cheerily thinks. _Bloke won’t make it a week._

But once everyone readies themselves and recording starts, Michael sullenly sitting to the left as far away as possible from Gavin while remaining at his setup, something changes in the air. As far as the British man can tell, there isn’t anything tangible; nothing that distinguishes pre-recording from during, but Michael suddenly clicks with everyone _._

There really isn’t a better way of describing it. He just _clicks._

Gavin’s more than a little fascinated by it, which he knows is glaringly obvious from his absence in the usual chatter, but it’s as if the brunet becomes an entirely different person. Abruptly, he’s bright-eyed and leaning in to the monitor, a shine to his expression that was noticeably previously lacking. Happy. Open. Relaxed.

Before long, Michael’s coarse, maniac laughter joins everyone else’s. He starts interjecting with snarky remarks, throwing out insults with the absolutely _wildest_ expletives, and even reaching out to playfully punch Ray in the shoulder once or twice. Geoff’s trademark giggle joins the mix when Michael blows Gavin up, Jack and Jeremy softly chuckling in the background. Settling down, it’s as if Michael’s always been here.

Gavin soon forgets that this is counterproductive to what he wants, a genuine, delighted grin plastered to his face by the hour mark. He stubbornly tries to pull his upturned lips down, but he can’t help but laugh as he runs Michael over and the man explodes into profanities.

“I –” Michael sputters, pushing himself from the desk and dropping his Xbox controller with a clatter. “Jesus _fucking_ Christ, I was so goddamn close, I was almost done with the objective!”

He twists his head to face a giggling Gavin, glare softening almost instantly. His mouth is already curving into an easy, dimpled smile as he rolls towards the British man, accusing, “Free, you fucking betrayer –“

“The look on your face is bloody priceless!”

As Gavin leans back to escape from getting swatted at, he spies Geoff quite possibly shedding a tear at the exchange (which is somewhat peculiar, but the older man has honestly cried at less). Michael laughs at the British man’s distracted gaze, lunging forwards again while shouting, “get back here, boi –”

But as soon as the words leave Michael’s mouth and his hands land on Gavin’s chest, the moment ends.

Gavin’s surprised squawk at the touch is deafening in the abruptly silent room of people and in the same immediate instance, Michael reels away.

He’s wide-eyed, hands drawn up close to his body as though he was just burned. And then – you can see the physical change to him, Gavin swears – the brunet hunches and his walls, all meter-thick concrete and steel, go right back up again. His eyes are burning when he looks up again.

For some reason Gavin can’t figure out for the life of him, Geoff looks as if his world just ended.

“O-okay, lllllets stop,” Ray says, chuckling nervously.

An awkward silence settles in the room.

 

Michael’s more than a little rattled.

He doesn’t know if it’s the fact that this morning he had repeated to himself over and over that romantic attachments are _not_ the priority here (even when they are, they obviously are no matter what he tries to make himself believe), or how he’s more fucked up over all this than he previously thought (maybe he just never let himself think about it too hard), but his small blunder cost him.

He had figured out that it’s much easier to think of Gavin Free and _Gavin Free_ as two completely different people. Because in theory, it should be easy for him to interact with Gavin; he has the same ridiculous hair, same shining sea-green eyes, same comically lanky frame, same overwhelming personality. But the new Gavin – _Gavin Free –_ is welcoming and pleasant to him in the way he puts up with strangers, giving less than half a shit about it all. There’s no depth to his smile.

And see, Gavin looking right through Michael - that thought would tear him to fucking shreds. There’s no dispute about it. But _Gavin Free_ has no reason to give a shit about any of it. _Free_ has every reason to be apathetic. It’s perfectly normal for _Free_ to not bother giving him a second glance. To show up to work on a Thursday wearing a low v-neck with hickeys littering his collarbones. _Free,_ after all, isn’t – wasn’t – his boyfriend.

This is an easy concept to understand.

But Michael finds his hands automatically clenching with half-moon crescents digging into the palms of his hands anyways after uttering that shitty, forbidden term of endearment reserved for Gavin, not _Free_. How the fuck is he supposed to act? _Free_ looks just like Gavin, even if things have changed and he looks darker, sadder somehow, even as he looks cockier, more sure of himself. _Shit, I fucking fucked up, I got too relaxed_ -

As if right on cue, green eyes and tanned skin suddenly take up Michael’s vision as Gavin peers at his face, entirely too close for comfort. “Michael? Are you alright?” _Mi-cool._

“Y-yeah. Doing fucking beautifully, Free.” Michael mutters, pulling his mind out of the gutter. “S-sorry, Geoff.” _My mouth may be apologizing but you better be damn sure I still want to strangle you, old man._

“It’s alright,” Jack replies for him, tapping his fingers thoughtfully on his desk. “The cut we have is lengthy, anyways. It shouldn’t be a problem to work with. Good start.” He pulls a warm smile, nodding his head with an encouraging look as if to say _that was fine, you’re fine,_ and Michael feels a rush of gratitude. Even though they hadn’t been close all those years back, the russet-bearded man has definitely been growing on him.

Michael can grudgingly understand how Jack quickly made best friends with Geoff, half-heartedly wishing that he could have a support network like that.

 _Well, I did,_ he reminds himself with a wince. Ray is shaking his leg nervously to his left, clicking on his computer aimlessly and obviously distracted by Michael’s silence. _I did, until I told him to fuck off and he fucked right off back to Ryan and Gavin and the others. Like I told him to. Fucking A._

For all the reasons listed above, Michael really fucking wants to say that he doesn’t want to stay. He wants to say that he’ll take the week’s trial that Geoff offered him, grab the paycheck, and then get the hell out of there without ever looking back (That is, if he even survives the week).

He couldn’t be paid enough to face Gavin every day, making bigger and bigger slip-ups like the one today. Work in close quarters. Become _close_ again. Michael shudders at the thought.

At the same time, though, he _does_  want to stay _;_ he knows that Geoff knows (by extension, Jack, Ryan, Ray maybe -) that he’s stuck the way a worn, tired sweater seeks brambles, how a plant will still twine around crumbling fences if only to get a little closer to the sun –

Michael is furious at himself for it.

“If we’re done the let’s play – I think that’s what it’s called, fuck – I’m gonna walk around and try to meet everyone else today, if you guys don’t mind.” He stands all of a sudden.

Ray jumps at the chance, opening his mouth (probably to offer to join him and escape the tense atmosphere), but Michael’s mind races for half a beat before shooting him down before he even gets a single syllable out. “With…Jeremy,” he tacks on quickly.

The Puerto Rican sinks back into his seat, looking crestfallen as he shuts his mouth. Jeremy, on the other hand, looks pleasantly surprised at the mention of his name and shoots a grin Michael’s way as he takes his headphones off. “Hey, sure thing.”

So the pair leaves together. Michael doesn’t regret it in any case, even with the knowledge that he hurt Ray by it, because talking to Jeremy is _easy._ Jeremy is _safe._ He doesn’t ask any leading questions, doesn’t give Michael any pitying looks. He just smiles and cracks jokes, waving at everyone they pass.

Ultimately, this is the reason that Michael will use when he decides to stay at Rooster Teeth, at Achievement Hunter: the atmosphere, the kick-ass job description, the friends he’s missed. He’s sick of being alone for absolutely no reason other than the fact that he put himself in that situation, so he decides to get himself out. Simple as that. None of this _staying_ bullshit is because of Gavin Free, god no.

Definitely not because of _Gavin Free._

At least, that’s what Michael tells himself as he shows up to work the week after that. And the week after that. It hurts to begin with, of course it motherfucking _hurts,_ but when everything’s said and done, Michael realizes he can do this, more or less, even with all his old friends surrounding him, with his ex-boyfriend, ex-almost, ex-best friend, ex- _something_ suddenly grinning wildly at his side again day after day, like a dream teetering on the edge of nightmarish. Because in the past few years, if nothing else, Michael has learned that he can live with a lot of things.

He’s learned that he can live with pretty much anything.

(Almost anything.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've just started at a four-month contract position with the local gov't for co-op and honestly I've been a wreck, I'm just tired all the time and have no time to write because I'm napping when I'm not working or commuting LOL (if you're ever wondering why my updates are rolling out slow)
> 
> In any case, this chapter got me like (':. speculate away!
> 
> HXL


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You've heard of Gavin "fucking" Free.....now get ready for:
> 
> Michael "bloody" Jones.
> 
> (S/O to Anna abt new character! And to Kri for betaing <3)

 

“Almost. I said _almost,_ Jesus fuck,” Michael huffs, distracted.

“Please?” Geoff hedges, knowing full well that working together is very, _very_ different from anything that happens outside of the four walls of the company building. Not that Michael cares, because there’s no way in hell he’d do this even if he would get paid a couple million for it. (Well, maybe then…?)

“ _Almost_ anything. Having bevs with _him_ outside of work isn’t even _remotely_ close to included in the package of ‘anything’,” he impatiently snaps. “Who the fuck is that?” He jabs a finger at the couch, where Gavin and a gorgeous woman with bright purple hair are sitting together – intimately so.

Geoff bites his lip and refrains from calling Michael’s attention to _bevs_ , instead opting for a carefully articulated “Meg Turney,” tone complete with a generous dose of fake inattention and a splash of secrecy. In other words, Geoff Ramsey is a fucking dickhead.

Michael rolls his eyes and shoves his hands deep in his pockets. He fishes for his keys and grabs his wallet off his desk, turning away from the scene in front of him as Gavin’s laugh tinkles out and fills the room in response to something the woman says. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees casual brushes of hands against shoulders, chest, face –

Chest prickling, he decides he really doesn’t want to fucking know.

“Never mind. I’m going home, see ya.”

“But Michael, what about –“

“Fuck you too, old man!” He leaves while forcing a laugh just as Gavin glances over with a surprised expression on his face. _Fuck_ you _, too,_ Michael thinks.

Gavin just looks confused at the suddenly frigid expression on the man’s face and pulls his mouth into a small pout. Instead of getting up to complain, which Michael doesn’t know why the _fuck_ he half-expected to happen, the British man shrugs and puts his hand back on the purple-haired woman’s – Meg’s – knee and starts chattering animatedly to her again.

He misses the pained look that flashes across Michael’s features before the man slams the door shut behind him hard enough that the walls shudder.

 

“…Gavin? You were saying…?”

Gavin hums to himself and absent-mindedly pats Turney on the leg. “Ah, yeah. Was saying about…what was I on about again?” He grins apologetically. “Oh! We were talking about bloody streaming, sorry love. Anyways, I think that Twitch is really doing a spectacular job about…”

He tunes himself out as his mouth runs on autopilot – a surprisingly useful talent depending on how you look at it – and his thoughts instead turn to a certain dour, freckled man with a mop of wild curls, who left as abruptly as a furious whirlwind.

_Michael bloody Jones._

Astoundingly enough, it’s been a couple of months since the man with the vaguely Jersey accent invaded Gavin’s second home and firmly stayed put. And Gavin doesn’t know why he’s feeling loosely out of sorts about it all, but Michael has gotten awfully chummy with the rest of the group. He even loses the furrowed brow on rare occasions when dicking around _off camera_. His laugh has gotten louder, more contagious –

In any case. It’s not like _Gavin_  wants to be his friend, so this is the best possible outcome apart from the mingepot getting fired, right?

_Right?_

“Do you even listen to yourself when you talk?” Meg gives Gavin a stern look as he refocuses on reality, but it quickly melts into her regular toothy smile, sweet and unassuming, even as she lightly punches him in the arm.

“Ow, Turney!” Faking a whimper, Gavin shies away. “Quit bullying me! Just because I grace you with proper conversation doesn’t mean you can…you can…” He frowns, losing his train of thought as a glowering, freckled face pops back into the forefront of his mind again without invitation.

Flicking her straight hair back, Meg laughs with a glimmer of amusement in her eyes. She curls up more comfortably on the couch and tilts her head slightly. “By that, you _really_ mean I just saw through your bullshit,” she points out, which is true.

Gavin forgets about the dilemma of Michael Jones for a second. He relents.

“That’s how you know it’s real, love.” He can’t help but purposely dish out a terribly executed wink, making Meg slap her hands over her mouth to muffle a giggle. He grins and lets his head fall on her small shoulder.  “Seriously – you’re absolutely brilliant for humouring me all the bloody time.”

She shoves him playfully. “It’s fun. I don’t mind.” Meg laughs again, lighthearted and happy – and that’s what gets Gavin. Or better put, _got_ him, when he first met her about a year ago.

He instantly fell headfirst into what he mistook for love but was actually more like a puzzle piece he wished he had but always lacked (isn’t that what they describe love as, anyways? Like puzzle pieces –) and he went at it the same way he usually went at that type of thing. But Meg Turney, then with shockingly red hair, had immediately read past his champagne smiles and carefully constructed layers of pretense.

She was also unapologetic enough about it all to blatantly lie and tell an overly confident, more-than-a-little-excited Gavin that she was going to get them both more drinks, after which she promptly left the little party without a backwards glance.

“Yeah, Turney. You’re really something, you know that?” Gavin muses aloud, twisting a strand of purple hair between his fingers.

She twists away and jokes, “And you’re pretty great too, so why aren’t we dating?” But it makes Gavin lower his hand and frown. Why _aren’t_ they dating? Turney’s that perfect mix of hellish fit but also sweet as anything. The only possible downside could be that she has a penchant for gaming a little too competitively, which actually proves to be no problem at all.

“Hey, I’m kidding, you know that right?” Meg drops her voice as Geoff, muttering something under his breath, passes them by. “I don’t see you like that, and I’m pretty sure you’re not into me.” Which is also true.

“But you seem really interested in that new guy – the one that left a little while ago.”

“Michael,” Gavin’s mouth says automatically, even as he’s still processing Meg’s words. His green-blue eyes suddenly widen. _What?_ He leans back and holds up the palms of his hands in front of him as if to physically ward off the allegation. “Wait, wait, I’m most certainly _not_ interested in Michael _bloody_ Jones!”

The small woman looks unconvinced.

When Gavin goes home that day and Geoff makes a suspiciously similar comment about how Gavin hasn’t had a significant other in years and years (he's fairly certain the older man’s argument is actually more along the lines of _never,_ but Gavin swears dating in 11th year _counts_ ), the British man is almost tempted to throw his hands up in exasperation and go, “what the bloody _hell_ do you want me to do about this then?” but he doesn’t.

“It’s just a gigantic misunderstanding, that’s all, Griffon!” He ends up back at Geoff and Griffon’s regardless, to exclaim his indignation to the tattooed woman sitting across from him at the kitchen table. “I’m not minging _interested_ in Michael bloody Jones, I’m just…he’s so _lovely_ to everyone now. Absolutely brill. To everyone except me. Griffon, _me!”_

Gavin scrunches up his face, greatly offended by the fact that he of all people couldn’t get someone to take a shine to him. But Griffon doesn’t offer much insight, landing on an odd expression with pursed lips that he can tell words are fighting to escape.

The only thing she really says is, “maybe you’ve just been alone for too long, Gavin,” before she stands in an obvious gesture aiming to usher Gavin out, clearly upset.

 

Even later that night.

Gavin very nearly goes to grab some alcohol and is halfway into the pantry when he stops himself, but he does wind up smoking a little in his bedroom instead. _Oh well, baby steps,_ he supposes as he blows out a light cloud of nicotine-tinged air. Watching it quickly ascend and blend into the darkness, he is almost tempted to ditch his good intentions anyways and go out, but it’s not like he has anyone to supervise.

“I have been quite good this year,” he says aloud to nobody or anything in particular. “Quite good.”

After all, he’s stopped being a _complete_ trainwreck, if his old habits are the parameters to measure said trainwreck-ness by. No more drunken hook-ups – he’s way better about that all now – and reckless partying. Running a hand through his messy hair, Gavin smiles to himself amusedly. _Can’t really keep at it, anyways. I grew out of that, I suppose._

But now that both Meg and Geoff have sort of called it to his attention in a roundabout way, Gavin does unhappily admit that there must be something broken in his inner machinery (not his _plumbing,_ god forbid). Something _weird._ Something that, while allowing him to be entirely capable – some would argue a little too much so – in social conventions and manipulating them to suit his own needs, harmless flirting (which incidentally is currently his drug of choice) and what have become occasional, _healthy_ , strictly sober hookups, Gavin Free can’t fall in _love._

It’s like the start of a bad joke – _a British man, his abnormally large nose, and his overwhelmingly pretentious charisma that hides profound depression and insecurity walk into a bar_ – except it’s more along the lines of a joke that’s run its course and now that Gavin’s at the end of it he realises there isn’t even a bloody punch line to make the damn thing worth his while.

Proper affection, relationships, the whole bit; they’re just that tiny bit out of grasp, like the lost, frayed edges of a dream that disappear as quickly as wisps of smoke do in the slightest hint of wind. He’s always just half a beat off, a step out of sync. And he fucking hates it, not feeling any of it. Not properly, anyways.

_Maybe I was a bloody wanker and got cursed in a past life._

_Not that I’m not a wanker now._

Thinking about how much Michael seems to bloody hate him despite him giving every – however fake – reason not to, Geoff’s dogged insistence in hiring the git in the first place, and Griffon’s inexplicably troubled thoughts, Gavin would like nothing more than to have a drink. At _that_ thought, he tosses his cigarette out his window, listening to the embers hiss as they’re put out by the slight drizzle outside. He crawls into bed to stop himself from doing something irrational and stupid.

But his mind always has other plans. Predictably.

His gut twists uncomfortably at the dark notions taking shape and tucking themselves in his head somewhere between the back of his eyes and his brainstem, after which he _does_ scramble out of bed to take a sleeping pill to chase with some alcohol.

(Which, sure, you’re not supposed to do, but whatever you’re not _supposed_ to do, _Christ,_ Gavin has already more or less done them all.)

So maybe this is why Gavin finds a savage sort of pleasure in heading to work next day and seeing Michael miserable and bitter for whatever reason the bloke has for being miserable and bitter, because _at least I_ seem _more put together than he is, ha._

“Top of the morning to you, Michael!”

“Just fuck off already, Free.” Michael mutters without as much bite as usual. Turning away, he breaks into a smile, all teeth and dimples, as Jack and Jeremy greet him, too. Gavin wrinkles his nose in disappointment. _Alright, so not as much derived pleasure from said piss poor attitude as previously thought._

In the days that follow, an idea creeps up on the British man as quickly as his annoyance at the brunet’s friendliness to everyone _except_ him, rises. And to be fair, a small voice in the back of Gavin’s head says _bloody hell, this is horrible even for you, Gavin David Free,_ but by the time one Friday afternoon he sees Ryan carelessly throw an arm around Michael’s shoulders after an LP and head out for drinks with Jack while chuckling to each other over some inside joke, Gavin can’t care less about the morality of it all.

He also can’t tell if he’s honestly just lonely or wants to prove he’s _capable_ of developing and keeping a relationship, but motives are _technicalities._ Fake-able. Like everything else in the bloody world. Gavin grimaces in bittersweet satisfaction at his own contention towards…he vaguely gestures midair before realizing he’s at work and it’s a Tuesday or something and oh, Michael’s staring.

“What are you fucking _doing?”_ The man blurts before snapping his mouth shut as he usually does, swallowing like he just tasted something sour.

Gavin grins roguishly and rolls his chair closer, waving his hands in stupid little circles in front of his face. “I didn’t know you cared about what I do, Michael! Are you curious? Hm, _love?_ ” He leans in, lips only inches away from the other man’s, and watches Michael’s Adam’s apple bob jerkily as the man shakes his head furiously. His thick brown locks bounce with the movement.

“N-no, fuck. Who would give a shit about you?” He stutters.

 _Your mouth and your face are saying different things, haha._ But Gavin can concede with Michael’s reaction as he himself knows full well that he’s attractive to other people. People are suckers, even when in denial (or in Michael’s case, _wallowing_ in it). Even so, the British man finds a surprising amount of relief in the event, even as he feels a weak thud to his chest at the jab which shouldn’t hurt by now, but does.

_Yeah, alright. Bloody piss off, you prat. I already know that I don’t matte–_

Gavin violently shakes the thought away, settling back on his little plan that’s been solidifying more and more by the minute, the second (the word, the syllable, the _who-would-give-a-shit-about-you_ s) – because when it comes down to it, Michael bloody Jones just has a bad personality. So Gavin has next to no qualms.

“You so _obviously_ wish we were closer, my little Michael,” Gavin coos, and Michael sucks in a breath as though he was just shot while Ray whips his head around in alarm, unsure if he heard correctly. But Gavin ignores the Puerto Rican in favour of crowing internally with his eyes still fixed unwaveringly on the rapidly colouring face of the Jersey man. _Bulls-eye._

 _But hey,_ Gavin will argue later when Geoff demands to know what the fucking dicks he’s doing messing with the new talent in that intentionally shit-disturbing way of his that’s usually reserved for strangers, for one-night stands, for people you _do not see on a regular basis;_ Gavin will argue that _it’s just all in good fun, I’m just having a go at it._

And when Geoff inevitably asks, more interrogation-style than anything, _having a go at_ what? _,_ Gavin will smile that practiced smile of his as he replies, except this time with an edge of something else, something competitive, feral and amused akin to the look in a cat’s gaze as it plays with a dying mouse. Something that makes Griffon, who eavesdrops from the room over, want to tell a certain Puerto Rican to tell a certain Jersey kid (because they’ll always be kids to her) to get the hell out of here, because this amount of heartbreak just can’t be worth it.

Because what Gavin decides is that if he’s gonna hate the new guy (who’s not really all that new anymore) and the new guy is going to try his damn hardest to hate him back, albeit more wholeheartedly for whatever bloody reason, he might as well have fun with the entire affair; it’s not as though he has any issue with putting on a persona. This will just be more…long-term. Requires more commitment. But will also serve to prove a point – that Gavin Free can, in fact, get into a relationship.

 _It’ll be a riot,_ he decides as he happily tells Geoff, who tries to mask the horror in his grey eyes at how far off the cliffside his wayward plan has fallen. _It’ll be a riot to make Michael Jones fall in love with me._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no
> 
> HXL


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> infinite s/os to a handful of anons and friends on tumblr, some fanart, _another_ playlist, as well as [PAPERSK1N (!!!!)](http://papersk1n.tumblr.com/post/138428004882/) for reccing my fic, for dragging me out of my slump where i was kinda just doin this [softly] hating my writing/style and all that, im ????? ? ? ?? ?????
> 
>  **i.** [LCM/DOVETAIL PLAYLIST Vol. II: Feel Something](http://mogarsbitch.tumblr.com/post/138122595359/), curated by Phoenixx and Gabs. I'm Cryin tbh I can't believe people can so accurately put a feeling into a playlist but here we r my dudes, with two whole playlists of the stuff. Pls listen to it!! I do !! A lo t!!
> 
>  **ii.** SemiAutoFanGirl threw together the [CUTEST FRICKEN ART](http://gracefullyfoolish.tumblr.com/post/138124839841/) of my LCM summary, complete with little Michael Freckles™ and their eyes are like ' ' I'm so in love
> 
>  **iii.** Lastly, Mery. My friend, my dude,,,,, [a goddamn triptych](http://gavsmogar.tumblr.com/post/138119823894/) for my all-time favourite scene I've ever written for this entire 'verse. THE EXPRESSIONS!! THE COLOURS (haha [finger guns]) !! everYTHIGN...Bury me with all of this.... 
> 
> Thanks for all your support ahhh h h  
> Enjoy the chapter!

 

Surprisingly, things go fine for a little while longer after that.

(Well, that would depend on who one asks)

Precisely a week after Gavin not-so-subtly sets his plan in motion, Ray Narvaez Jr. has the misfortune of finding himself almost alone at work in the morning (where alone would have been infinitely preferable to almost alone, and where the “work” part of the sentence isn’t the actual issue). He fights from jostling his leg nervously as he waits for his video to render, focusing on making as little noise as possible in the dead silent room. Cue traitorous chair creak as he leans backwards by like, a quarter of an inch.

Ray sighs in resignation. _I mean, it’s not like I don’t deserve it._

With Jack and Geoff off at a meeting, Ryan doing his dumb adult thing being a professor now and all (he’ll get drawn into doing AH full time, Ray just knows it), Gavin god-knows-where, and Jeremy somewhere fucking shit up with Matt, that leaves –

Michael shifts in his seat.

The tense quiet in the room is so fucking bad Ray considers rolling over and dying. Instead, he finds his nervous twitch extending to his drumming fingers and chewed lips, wondering how he’s stayed alive for this long on good ol’ Earth with no sense of self-preservation, apparently, as he blurts out, “just _punch_ me already, dude.”

It’s by no small stroke of luck that Michael doesn’t do just that immediately. The brunet wears an expression more parts bewilderment than spite, but there’s a drop of satisfaction somewhere in there at the invitation, Ray knows it.

“Do it, deck me in the face. Get it over with.” Ray squeezes his eyes shut. The sound of Michael getting up makes his heart stutter in his chest and – no surprise – he sorta wants to chicken out of this already. “On second thought, can you spare the glasses – can I take them off first?”

He accidentally tilts instead of rolls his chair back in a moment of panic from hearing Michael’s footsteps near and his centre of gravity shifts somewhere closer to _down. To Death, probably._ He instinctively opens his eyes to the swooshing feeling in his stomach and the world is spinning as blood rushes to his brain and he sees Michael lunge out and keep him from crashing to the ground in his chair.

Somehow, Ray doesn’t quite register what that means and he’s still entirely too concerned with the fate of his – “I mean, I know it’s more satisfying with the glasses on but they’re real expensive and you probably don’t want broken glass on your knuckles, I don’t know, but I got these frames at –“ His mouth is still running at an increasing volume and _god, if Michael didn’t want to kick my ass before, he’s definitely going to want to now._

Michael straightens his chair for him as he sits, hands waving nervously.

“Ray.”

Spine perfectly perpendicular to the ground, Ray jolts ninety-degrees upright as he snaps his mouth shut and his glasses fall off the bridge of his nose and clatter to the floor.

“Yes!” He all but shouts.

Now, Ray could almost swear that the blurry Michael in front of him is exasperated or something. That the furrow in his brow is not _angry,_ but _confused._ But what the fuck does he know about his ex-best friend, right? That is, until Michael opens his mouth again and says –

“Shut the fuck up. I’m not going to punch you.”

Ray’s brain shuts down.

“That’s just ridiculous.”

But Michael really doesn’t punch him. Sure, the Puerto Rican flinches as something cold pokes him in the eye, but it’s just the other man doing his best to put his glasses back on him. Michael swears under his breath. “Jesus – still stay, would you?”

After a moment of struggle with hinges and temples, Michael slides into the chair Gavin usually sits in while Ray fixes his glasses back on his face and the two sit dumbly in silence, facing each other with suddenly nothing to say.

It’s true that they could go on from here to start talking about the Gavin Free-shaped scar between the two of them, the three lost years in a perfectly good friendship. Michael could ask about how Ray did after he all but abandoned him, how Achievement Hunter got together, what the hell happened to Ray’s degree in computer science. Ray could ask what the hell happened with Michael’s life in general.

Ray settles for, “sorry.”

Michael settles for, “yeah, I’m the one who fucking left.”

He settles for, “glad you’re doing well.”

They both eventually settle for a long-overdue hug, too, which is when Ray manages to say something muffled in Michael’s shoulder about how he’s happy that Michael’s here, Michael pretends not to hear, and they suddenly snap back to like they were before any of this, back in their dorm room fighting over chip bags and video games and small things. Without the almost-death and almost-dying and amnesia and the whole bit.

Which is nice.

It all sort of snags Ray in how Michael’s frame still freezes with misery when Gavin bursts into the office later that day though, but Ray just drags Michael out without further ado or so much as an explanation, to Gavin’s surprise, and he likes that he _can_ now without fearing getting murdered by his ex-best friend – no, _best friend_ –; he likes that they’re finally okay again.

Even if nothing else is, not completely so.

 

In hindsight, there wasn’t much to make up _about,_ really, but Ray’s relief quickly fades as he has war flashbacks to university and his biology course, _positive feedback loop_ wrestling its way into his head even as he thinks about how it’s good that Michael and him did make up, because he starts noticing the shift in Gavin’s eyes and what could only be described as _jealousy_ as Michael and Ray’s interactions become more genuine, less tense, more…just _more._

 _Fucking typical of me to take away from university the one thing useless to my entire degree. I don’t even_ do _science._

_Anyways._

Ray recalls his crusty old biodiversity professor’s droning voice. _Positive feedback loops are when a disturbance causes an ever-growing increase in the effects of items in a system on one another._

For the purposes of this metaphor, Achievement Hunter is the system. The makeup is the disturbance. And to put it mildly, Gavin’s resentment (jealousy?) grows as Michael and Ray start getting along significantly better than before, which spurs the British man into attempting even harder to befriend Michael, which makes Michael increasingly anxious, which makes him seek shelter in him and Ray’s friendship and comfortable interaction, which makes Gavin more…

 _That’s_ the feedback loop.

Yeah, Ray can’t help but think he’s exacerbating the situation. _Whatever that situation is, because hell if I know._ Even though everyone obviously _knows_ he’s with Ryan, that small fact somehow escapes everyone with the overwhelming fake gay between him and Michael that the brunet falls back on as a safe zone whenever anything like _anything_ happens, usually of a Gavin-type origin. 

And unwittingly, for the thousandth time in his life, Ray is right. Because Gavin isn’t impressed with Team Better Friends – not in the least.

Exhibit A: Michael turning down Gavin’s offer to go out for bevs, happily announcing he’s instead having a sleepover at the apartment of _yours truly –_ which, to make things clear, Ray was definitely not informed about – and forcing Gavin to shrug it off and leave without him. (More like storm off, actually.)

Exhibit B: Gavin casually resting a hand on Michael’s arm as he fights for breath laughing at Jeremy fucking up in a Minecraft LP and Michael all but hurtling out of his chair into Ray’s lap. Ryan chuckles, albeit somewhat nervously, and cracks a joke about killing the brunet for touching his boyfriend.

Gavin doesn’t laugh.

Exhibit C: “RAYCHAEL IS REAL,” Michael shouts during a GTA LP one day as his character collides with Ray’s in what could more than likely be mistaken for a sexual act, and the room bursts into hoots and appreciative whistles, minus those of Gavin. Completely disregarding what Tumblr’s going to do with that, Ray gulps and his laugh is pitched and more nervous than anything as he sees the way Gavin’s eyes narrow.

If anything, Gavin Free seems, for once in his life, legitimately mad at the entire situation. Ray’s never seen him actually mad before, but come to think of it, in his four-odd years of knowing the man he’s never witnessed Gavin quite _anything_ except happy, annoyed, or some other variation of willfully positive.

Never anything genuinely off-beat or negative, nothing like actual _anger,_ no. _Not until now_ , Ray thinks. But it suddenly occurs to him that since Gavin Free is in fact human, he obviously must have shittier emotions once in a while, and that – this thought makes him sympathetically nauseous – Michael must be familiar with this more hidden away part of Gavin, must have seen him on bad days, once upon a time.

 _So this is technically a good thing,_ Ray argues to himself, pulling himself back on track, _because Geoff’s whole point is to get them back together. Jeez, if Gavin’s jealous and this helps that, why the fuck does this seem like a Bad Fucking Idea?_

His question answers itself when one night lands Ray at Gavin’s house instead of Ryan’s, Gavin’s iron grip dragging Ray through the door with a thinly-veiled excuse of “you’ve been too caught up with Michael; we need to spend some _quality_ time together, Ray!”

Ray swallows. _Oh wait, maybe it’s because I’m in the middle of it._

_Fantastic, Ray Narvaez Jr. Just fantastic._

 

To be fair, _Gavin_ doesn’t even know what Gavin’s doing. What he does know, at the very least, is that he’s – as Ray guessed it – less than impressed. He didn’t mean much by it at the start (just a silly little game to pass the time, really) but even he has his standards. _And some bloody pride, damn it._ Because when it comes down to it, Michael’s winning a game he doesn’t know he’s even playing.

Heck, even _Ray_ is winning and Gavin’s bloody seen Ray flirt with Ryan, he’s completely god-awful at it –

“So uh, Gavin? I sure hope you had something in mind when you pulled me here, my dude, because I would _love_ to go home right about now unless you actually have some kind of plan for us hanging out alone, you know I don’t drink alcohol and you originally wanted to invite Michael who obviously isn’t here…”

Gavin’s most definitely _losing._

 A voice in his nags at him to shake the unsuspecting Puerto Rican in front of him, but he smiles the feeling away and innocently asks, “I know you’re with Ryan, but are you and Michael a thing?”

Ray spits out the water he was sipping. He chokes, hitting his chest with a small fist as he squints at Gavin with watering eyes. “ _Excuse me?”_

 _Whoops._ By that reaction, they probably aren’t. Not that the British man doesn’t already know that, but it’s nice to make sure. Now that he knows that, though, it makes it downright _rude_ that Michael isn’t playing along with Gavin’s plans. He refocuses on an incredulous, slightly horrified-looking Ray and puts on a rueful grin.

“Aw, never mind. You and Michael seemed to get so close so quickly! It’s like you’ve known him for years. I’m just a tad curious, is all.” Heavy emphasis on the lilt in his tone. Light. Easy. Free of ulterior motives.

He watches Ray try not to choke on his water again. Gavin leans forward, across the table. The man has never been that good at hiding his emotions, even when he first met him at the foot of a hospital bed. “Come on, chap. Spill. What’s on with you and him?”

Ray protests vehemently, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “Nothing! Nothing’s on with us – We’ve just been hanging out a lot lately, I like the dude, okay? I mean, I don’t _like_ like the dude –“

And that’s enough for Gavin.

“Then would you mind giving me a minging chance to get to know the bloke better, Ray?” He lets a bit of frustration seep into his voice, guilty look worming its way onto the dark-haired man’s face for whatever reason. “You hardly let go of Michael – if he’s not your boyfriend, it shouldn’t matter so much, should it?”

Ray makes a sound that’s a cross between disbelief and _I have a need to tell you otherwise_ which Gavin completely disregards.

“Anyways, let’s play some bloody Mario Kart or something.”

Of course, Gavin’s right. Or he would be if he knew the truth, _the whole truth, nothing but the truth_ , but he doesn’t. So Ray can’t tell him that he fell into a groove with Michael that’s existed for years; fell _back_ into it. He can’t tell him that things matter, they all do, and that it all revolves around Gavin, and that this stupid tension in the office that has practically everyone on their toes _all the time_ , has been about him and Michael to start.

Ray can’t explain to him why Michael really, really doesn’t want to get to know him, because that would include explaining that it’s hard for anyone to know him any better than Michael already does.

Therefore when, between laughter and screeches as Ray inevitably wrecks him in Mario Kart, Gavin asks (read: pressures) Ray for something suspiciously sounding like _permission_ to go out for bevs with Michael over the weekend “because you’re a pisspot and prevented that from happening last time,” he cracks and he nods, because he can’t say anything concrete to explain why this is a _Bad Idea_ that wouldn’t get him ripped to shreds by either Michael or Geoff.

Not that going along with this wouldn’t get him ripped apart by the newly-made-up-with best friend, which is the only thing that concerns Ray, really. _But I’m Weak and I don’t know how to improvise so welp, guess I’ll be going down at the hands of our resident asshole in T minus 2 days, 3 hours, 50 minutes, 9 seconds…_

A few days later, Ray gets slightly tipsy for the first and last time in his life, Michael and Gavin wind up getting drunk together, Gavin has a crisis of morality, and everything crashes back together in a dubious way like things falling into place.

Or more like things softly falling to pieces, or like a puzzle piece that fits _but not quite right –_

Not necessarily in that order.

“Yeah, fine – I’ll try and get Michael to come out with us. He won’t like it though, alright?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the late updates!! tbh Life and Sad™ are getting in the way and I am also world-building for a separate AU that I have no business writing when I have so much on my plate,,,
> 
> pls I have so many emotions over my smol sons [come talk to me](http://p-ercolating.tumblr.com/) abt them in the meantime? (^:
> 
> HXL


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Mavintines Day my friends (':  
> (pun courtesy of the ever-lovely Dee)
> 
> It has been Ages, but here we r !!
> 
> [sweats nervously] Ray-centric chapter bc honestly he is my fav,,, i am Sorry,,

"He won't like it" turns out to be a bit of an understatement. As Ray's hated high school English teacher had marked on practically every single half-assed papers he turned in, _phrase requires embellishment, description lacking. Explain further_. Breaking the news to Michael actually goes disastrously (or arguably, not-at-all-disastrously), or to make things clearer, a little like this:

The office is devoid of people the morning after Ray and Gavin's little talk and for once, Ray is glad. _Although,_ he nervously thinks as he watches Michael process what he just told him, _it would've been nice to have some witnesses to my murder._ He suddenly imagines a fancy courtroom with the jury lining one of the balconies and a judge banging his gavel, declaring “justified murder! No time will be served!" A small, suspiciously choked-sounding cough jerks him back to reality, though.

"You did what?" Michael's voice is level, but just barely. He clenches his hands as though he's ready to throttle Ray, except...actually, yep. That seems pretty accurate.

Ray lets out a choked cough of his own at Michael’s threatening tone, cringing away with what he hopes is a face of mournful apology. "I...uh...accidentally...agreed to come drink with you and Gavin Saturday or Sunday after work...maybe...?"

Emphasis on the _accidentally_. Skimming lightly over _Gavin_. But apparently not lightly enough.

He hastily sets his water bottle on his desk and mutters a quick "please don't kill me," as Michael - the Puerto Rican could swear there's smoke coming from his best friend's head of wild curls - takes a breath and bellows -

"WHAT THE FUCK? RAY, YOU DON'T EVEN MOTHERFUCKING DRINK."

_Nope, that I don’t._

Next thing Ray knows, he's lying flat on his ass on the carpet, slight frame practically blown over by the force of the shout. Gulping at the positively murderous gaze bearing down on him as he hazards a glance up, he considers just never, ever getting up again, let alone trying _(trying? Did I just think_ trying? _I didn't even fucking want any part in this in the first place?_ ) to facilitate conversation between his two miscommunicating, star-crossed friends.

"The weekend, you said?" Michael confirms in a softer voice (but not by much) as he reflexively extends a hand to help Ray up off the floor and Ray is more than a little daunted by how sharp the man's look is but he manages a small "yep” and takes his hand anyways.

Michael snorts like there's some inside joke about the whole thing and kicks his chair away, Ray struggling upright. "No way. I'm not coming. Definitely not. Fuck that noise." Michael shakes his head. "Ridiculous. What were you thinking going along with that?"

Of course, of _course_ he'd say that. Ray exhales with a _whoosh._

He doesn't really know why he's so surprised, but his jackhammering heart shortly gives way to relief and he finds himself furiously shaking his head up and down in agreement to the brunet's words.

Nevermind that Gavin will be pissed as all hell and probably blame Ray for the plans not going through. _Why's he so interested, to begin with? Jeez._

"Y-yeah, I figured you'd say that. It's all good, I'll tell Gavin you didn't want to, dude. No worries, haha. Whoops –“ Ray stumbles on a wire but recovers, mostly. “Thank god, I won't have to go out either, then - you're right, I still don't drink - Gavin can just do his own thing and go out with Meg or something Sunday like she wanted to."

"What?"

Ray crashes back to the floor, swearing, after almost managing to get upright, Michael having subconsciously loosened his grip on the Puerto Rican's hand.

A muffled complaint from the people downstairs travel up through the floorboards, but they pay it no mind. Michael, Ray suspects, may have not even noticed, if the weird look that just got in his eyes is anything to go by.

"Sorry," Michael says, but doesn't offer his hand again. Ray huffs good-naturedly, taking the chance to get himself up and into a chair as the other takes a pause for a full minute before continuing thoughtfully. "I think I'm gonna come after all. Not on Saturday though; I'm busy."

Ray, hands clasped in his lap and far more composed than, say, three minutes ago, nods his head wisely. "Yes, exactly, I think that's for the bes - " Wait. Wait.

Wait.

The Puerto Rican's brown eyes widen to the size of saucers and his previous relief rapidly retreats back into himself, already a speck compared to the sense of imminent doom rising in his chest again. _Come back_ , he wants to groan, but he's too busy sputtering incoherently at Michael.

 _Is this what getting whiplash feels like?_ A part of him thinks, mentally exhausted at trying to keep up with Michael's train of thought.

A different voice in his head also perks up just then, going, _whiplash? Ray Narvaez Jr., this is perfect. Like 'hoo boy, Michael, you're giving me whiplash! Careful now, don't want me to end up like Gavin, look at how he got from –'_

"TOO SOON, TOO SOON," Ray all but screams, realizing too late that he just yelled his objection at himself out loud.

Taken aback, Michael freezes in place at Ray's siren-warning sounding chant. Ray, in turn, snaps his mouth shut with a wide-eyed "oh shit" expression and accidentally sends his water bottle flying over the edge of his desk, landing with a muted crash and tinkle on the carpet in pieces. He always seems to break things in high-tension situations, doesn’t he?

"The fuck are you guys doing up there today, banging?" Burnie's voice floats up, faint but exasperated. "Shut up!"

Ray ignores him in favor of being furiously embarrassed.

"Dude...you good?" Michael's wary question, complete with an amused grin and dimples, does it for Ray. He throws what could only be described as a small fit, sulkily shouting -

"Fine, fine, go out with Gavin for drinks, see if I care! I don't! Nope! It’s not like I was gonna warn you to be careful with him or anything! Sorry for caring, asshole, now I'm gonna stay home and play Yu-Gi-Oh and relax, maybe do some editing, drink some good ol’ Capri-Sun -"

This is somehow funny to Michael, who's sent into a round of snickers. "Nah, you're coming with us! You said so yourself, right?"

At this point, Ray still hasn't figured out Michael's sudden change of heart towards Gavin's invitation so he doesn't say anything about the small begging look in Michael's eyes that frames his question.

"Well, if you're going I guess I don't have much of a choice, do I?" Ray mutters, mouth helplessly twitching into a smile at how Michael's face lights up.

Michael, on the other hand, just barely realizes that his face is an open book - his thoughts are a jumble of _thank god Ray will be there_ , _fuck Meg and Gavin_ , and _wow, there's really something comforting about watching someone fall apart faster than you over bad news (even if said person was the one that delivered it, and helped put it together to begin with)_.

Eyes still on the moody Puerto Rican, whose expression is still two parts train-wreck agitation and one part sincere, wonderful concern, Michael breaks into fresh laughter that belies the utter gratefulness he has for the guy.

"You're an idiot, Ray."

"Fuck you!"

 

So in the end, telling Michael about Gavin and his bar plans didn't wind up being as bad as Ray expected.

At least, until Ray relays Michael’s response to Gavin and Gavin reacts to “Sunday” just like Michael did, all teeth and gloating. His face falls a little when Ray informs him Michael still wants Ray there with him though, but Ray brushes it off as something of insignificance, probably.

But Sunday turns _probably_ into _nope definitely significant_ into _holy shit this is ironic as all hell_ and in hindsight, Ray realizes he really should've clued in at “Not on Saturday” and the heavily implied “Sunday, Ray” as his eyes fall on the little cut-out hearts strung out in strings behind the bartender in the bar they went to for the evening. A pathetic attempt at festive cheer in the unusually bustling bar full of people, they seem more like salt on a wound for the people showing either to nurse broken hearts, drinking socially to prove they don't need anyone (or hey, just having fun with friends out), or something in between. Unless they were Ray, who’s in a perfectly good relationship but unwittingly shot down his own boyfriend ("Hey Ray, want to go out for dinner for once?" "Nah Ry, gotta go do something with Michael and Gavin. Promised, sorry") and came of his own accord to third-wheel the dysfunctional pair that is Michael and Gavin on –

"Happy Valentine's Day!" Gavin announces with a raised glass, lowering it an inch in disappointment when Michael and Ray don't join him in his impromptu toast. Michael, because, well, it’s Michael _bloody_ Jones, when is Michael ever properly happy? Ray, because…he’s an idiot and ditched Ryan for _this._ Gavin shrugs, glass still high in the air. _I gave him the chance to back out, didn’t I?_ "You two need to bloody cheer up, Christ."

Out of the corner of his eye, Michael watches Ray wrap his hands around his glass of water, realization dawning on him. _It’s fucking Valentine’s Day? Fuck._

Michael rolls his eyes. _About time._ He turns back to face Gavin, who had just effortlessly knocked back the rest of his - third? Fourth? - beer of the night, shit-eating grin spreading on his face as he notices Michael's eyes on him. His eyes are a clear dark green. He raises an eyebrow.

"Like what you see, Michael?" Accented. _Mi-cool_.

Bristling, Michael fakes a grin of his own and takes a large gulp of his drink as well. "Nah, don’t dream of it. Feeling shit about ditching your girlfriend Meg for this yet? Worth it spending your _special night_ trying to suck up to Geoff by getting chummy with the newest employee?"

Gavin throws his head back in laughter, chair tilting dangerously. He rocks forwards again and puts a hand to his chest in mock sadness. "Oh, I'm hurt! I'm here because I want to be." Faltering at the declaration that sounds like one without ulterior motive but probably isn't, Michael is caught off guard as Gavin follows up with, "Besides, don't be ridic, Michael." His eyes glint as he leans forward, propping his bony elbows up on the wooden table. "I'm not with Turney."

Ray gulps at that, eyes flickering to Michael's stony ones, because not even he knows what the deal between that pair is. But Gavin's clarification does nothing for Michael anyways, he knows, for Gavin has a knack for making genuine stories sound false and false things ring true with his words rolling easy – always easy these days, never unsure, even with alcohol in his bloodstream – off his tongue.

If anything, Michael is more peeved by Gavin's indecipherable comment than anything he said before it, more peeved by his laughing green eyes shrouding whatever his true intentions are than the British man's heartless, disinterested glances that he used to be met with before...whatever it was Gavin had a change of heart in.

He finds himself irritated at not knowing what Gavin and Meg's relationship is and an inopportune thought strikes him just as Ray says something out of left field about YouPorn, Gavin shifting his attention to him with interest.

Michael tunes them out.

 _What if Meg and Gavin are just like...Gavin and I were? I mean, we were together, but we weren't together together. We never really told anyone at all, either..._ He thinks of Gavin's lanky frame against soft curves and purple hair against tan skin, pillow-muffled whispers, giggles, and tinkling laughter.

Michael's heart hurts and he chugs the rest of his beer down.

"Anyways, aren't you going to be bloody minged by Rye-bread when you get home for skipping out on him on Valentine's Day?" Michael tunes back in as Gavin changes the topic – the brunet feels bad all of a sudden at the mention.

Ray shrugs it off, turning his empty glass around and around absentmindedly. "Nah, I'll go home after this and make it up to him somehow." He turns bright red at the suggestive looks both Michael and Gavin give him. "No - shut up! Shut up, I don't care, you're right - we're going to bang, okay?"

Michael pulls Ray into a headlock and smirks knowingly. "Aw, we didn't say anything, Raybles!" Gavin hums an agreement, making a grand gesture of getting his wallet out and handing Ray a condom, causing the poor guy to blush all over again.

“Fuck, I’m a grown man, I don’t need this from you two –”

Brown eyes meet green ones over an internally (but mostly externally) screaming Puerto Rican friend and Michael and Gavin grin at each other, hands coming together in a reflexive high-five.

Gavin half-expects Michael to wilt and slide back from it, but he doesn’t. In fact, quite the opposite – Michael’s guilt and jealousy ease up to the implication of uncomplicated friendship and he grins even wider, overlooking the feeling of déjà vu as he allows, “I guess I don’t actually hate you, Free.”

Gavin’s responding smile eats up half his face and blinds half the bar.

Already resigned to being stuck here as the target of _both_ Gavin and Michael ( _what a traitor, I goddamn came out here as_ back-up _for him, didn’t I? Oh man, Ryan’s going to be so unimpressed)_ , Ray lets out a long-suffering sigh. He wonders what the hell Michael’s doing getting so close again when he – it’s obvious _now,_ couldn’t have anyone explicitly _told_ Ray it was going to be Valentine’s Day? – only did it to cockblock Gavin from Meg.

Gavin suddenly perks up at the mention of karaoke in drifting conversation and all but flips over the table in his scramble to get to the stage and sing (read: fuck shit up and probably break some glass). Michael follows him with his eyes and subconscious or not, the soft expression on his face could put golden retrievers to shame. Ray sighs again, thinking about how he’s going to be here for a while just as his phone buzzes in his pocket, seemingly right on cue – disastrously so.

 **[9:30:01 PM] Ry** ♥ **:** Hey babe, hope you’re having fun.

Ray stares at the text on the screen in trepidation as Gavin’s voice starts off, horrendously off-tune, from the front of the bar. He gulps wordlessly, wondering if his boyfriend’s words are passive-aggressive hurt, or good-natured and loving. _There’s a fucking_ period, _Ray, what do you fucking think???_

If Ray’s existence could be described by punctuation alone, he would definitely describe it as consecutive question marks. In italics. Bolded. Interdispersed with, or starting with, _why me??????????????_

Yeah, exactly like that.

For the first time in his life, Ray pulls out his ID and heads to the bar with a sigh long enough to take his soul, probably. It would be for the best in this situation anyways. “Hey, I uh, a beer. Thanks. I _really_ need it.”

And Ray proceeds to get very, _very_ sloshed. Which, to be fair, does happen when one has no goddamn clue what their limits are.

Michael and Gavin will both swear up and down later that they have _no clue_ how that happened.

(What happens is that Ray winds up taking a sip every time Michael and Gavin retreated into their own world, and another, and another, and by the time the pair finish off a couple tequila shots and Gavin starts rambling about _university_ and a certain _accident,_ Ray is so done and past tipsy that he says “yolo” and joins in for the next round of shots, the Crown Royale going down his throat surprisingly smoothly, although it leaves a bitter taste on his tongue that makes him pucker and his two friends laugh.)

By eleven, Ray is less like _??????? ,_ and closer to _!!!!!!!!!!._

By a _lot._

“Yeah, he’s worse than Gavin,” Michael sniggers into his cell, glancing at the Puerto Rican two tables away. “Ryan, seriously, he’s locked in some fucking argument about Luigi with a random and it’s getting _heated._ I might have to fight someone.”

“Hmn.”

Michael stops short of telling Ryan about how someone came up to Ray to hit on him a little while ago as he smartly notes that _ok, maybe I’m a bit tipsy, but I can still tell that Ryan is sorta…pissed._ Even though the phone, Michael could almost imagine Ryan’s less-than-pleased expression, all slow-boiling anger and –

“OI, RAY, C’MERE,” he shouts, not wanting to get the full brunt of Ryan’s wrath.

Instead of Ray, Gavin bounds over, wrapping his arms around Michael from behind. “You called?” the British man says in a singsong voice, karaoke evidently still on his mind, as he promptly gets shrugged off. He bounces right back from it though; Michael’s glare lacks bite and Gavin wonders if Michael knows what kind of face he’s making right now.

Free of anger creases, uncharacteristically off-guard, maybe even a bit – dare he say it – _tender_. “Shut up, Gavin. Not you. Ray. RAY –”

He wonders if Michael has realized he’s stopped calling him _Free_ yet.

Mouth creasing into a gleeful smile, Gavin trails behind as Michael presses his cellular into Ray’s hand, whispering something in his ear that makes Ray look more than a touch apprehensive, but understanding at the same time. Gavin frowns, wondering what it could’ve been.

“Good fucking luck, dude!” Michael straightens, talking in a normal tone again as he lands a heavy pat on the Puerto Rican’s back. He looks a little more apologetic than before, but not by much. “I just don’t wanna stick around to get skinned by Ryan, you feel?”

“Yeah, I feel,” Ray replies weakly, skin flushed and hair more than a little messy. “Just…” His voice drops too low for Gavin to hear again, but the British man doesn’t miss the sharp glance Ray sends his way as his lips move.

Irritation flares up in his gut.

“Hey, goin’ home already, Ray-Ray?” Gavin skips closer, plucking the phone from Ray’s loose grip. “Ry-an! Are you coming to pick up your little boyfriend? We were having so much fun, but _Christ,_ he’s a lightweight –“ He finds himself talking to a dial tone. He pouts and hands the cell back to Michael.

Turning back to Ray, Gavin plops down in the chair opposite, Michael wandering off to redial Ryan or something in peace. Gavin racks his head for something to say.

“It’ll be just dandy,” Gavin informs a nauseous but wary Ray in a low voice. He winks, to the indignation of the smaller man, and pulls his best, fake innocent smile. “I get it, you’re protective. But like I said, I just want to get to know him a bit better, alright? It’s fine for you to go home to Ryan.”

Although Ray seems to think _going home to Ryan_ would be a worse option for himself at this point.

Hearing Michael yell from across the room, “Gav! Did you want another round of drinks while we’re waiting for Ryan to come?” Gavin smirks, satisfied, and gets up with some effort, feeling a little tingly. _Gav._ He turns back to look at Ray as he goes to join Michael at the counter, calling out, “Who do you even take me for? I’m not trying to _fuck_ Michael, okay?” _At least, not today, I suppose._

Ray just watches on numbly, feeling a little dumb but still a lot drunk, a lot like _!!!!!!!_ even when Michael comes back with a glass of water to sit with, even when Ryan bursts into the bar less than five minutes after that, and even when he sees how the man’s blue eyes scan worriedly until they finally fall on his slight frame and he strides over, breathless.

“You goddamn _idiot,_ ” Ryan says.

 _I’ve gotten that a lot today_ is what Ray means to say, but being drunk is hard and he wordlessly reaches his arms up to Ryan, who shakes his head and picks him up with no effort at all. Ray buries his face in Ryan’s shoulder and breathes in his familiar smell, finally feeling maybe three exclamation marks instead of a thousand.

Unlike Michael, probably, who goes straight back to Gavin as soon as Ryan arrives and he’s sure Ray will be okay, like a planet in orbit around – yeah.

Surprisingly coherent, Ray mumbles into Ryan’s shirt, “I ‘ope they’ll be ok.”

Ryan hums, and holds Ray a little tighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I get positively _wrecked_ by any and all words about what you think/feel/whatever, you get the gist, so please? Pretty please? It's Valentine's Day!
> 
> Since this little scene will continue into Valentine's Day for Quite Some Time, dare I say I might have the next chapter up tomorrow? Maybe not. Probably not. But we can hope.  
> (EDIT 16/02/2016 11:50PM EST: I'M A FILTHY LIAR I AM SO SORRY I have 90% of it written but.....uh....[sweats])
> 
> Comments/kudos are my life and happiness. Thanks for reading! x
> 
> HXL


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I WAS A FILTHY LIAR I SAID THIS WOULD BE UP MONDAY/TUESDAY and here it is, THURSDAY,,,,,,,,  
> Never trust me again honestly
> 
> (not sure I've ever regained anyone's trust since LCM 35 anyways)

The leather upholstery of Ryan's car is cool against Ray's cheek. He dimly appreciates the feeling and the smooth hum of the engine, able to note that _wow, Ryan really must get paid a lot now if he can afford this_ before his stomach does a funny little lurch and everything non-immediate is left forgotten.

Eyes gentle, Ryan looks over at the "urp" that involuntarily escapes Ray's mouth. Ray could swear that he hears him laugh.

"Babe, just hold on. We're almost home."

Ray groans and Ryan really does laugh this time.

"It's okay, you can throw up if you need to," he offers, hitting the gas harder anyways, but Ray vehemently shakes his head - abruptly stopping when the threat of heaving rises in the back of his throat. He weakly leans into his seat again, sinking lower and closer to the ground. "I, uh, shouldn't."

The words take a lot out of the Puerto Rican and he lets out another small noise, the night lights spinning around him all of a sudden. As Ryan makes a turn sharper than usual - "Shoot, sorry" - that makes Ray knock his head gently against the window, hand raised too late to cushion himself, he wonders why the fuck people get drunk of their own volition, _ever_.

He wonders why the fuck Gavin did it - still does, sometimes, actually.

Not something he’d be able to get an answer to, he suspects. _Although Michael probably knows._

They finally pull into the condo lot and, no surprise, Ray can't seem to get his legs to work properly. So Ryan just picks him up again without so much as a huff and walks across the underground parking lot with him snugly held against his body, footsteps echoing off the stone walls and columns. The sound is comforting and Ray closes his eyes to the world again. He’ll deal with everything else later.

 _Wow,_ Ray reflects. _Being drunk sucks. I'm a piece of shit. It's Valentine's Day and I almost hurled in my boyfriend's brand-fucking-new car after like. Yeah. Wait, but I'm not sure if it's new. And I didn't even spend the day with him and I left Michael with Gavin anyways and I should've done something for him - he's, wow, he's so great and he doesn't seem mad but I think he should be mad? Now I want to be super talkative even though I can't because I'll hurl and I don't usually want to talk? But I do Right Now._

"Did Michael give you any water? You should probably get some fibre into you anyways, and then you can sleep this off. I'll call Geoff and let him know we won't be coming in tomorrow, and I guess I'll have to call into the college, too."

_I guess Ryan's the one that usually talks. I usually hate talking. Ryan knows that._

"Ray, babe, you have to - oh, I don't know - grunt or something, so I know you're still alive?" Ray feels Ryan sigh, against his chest. His stubble grazes the top of his head and there's something about his arms that is home to him. "Although, I suppose I can feel you breathing, so at least that's promising."

Ray's mouth curls into a smile.

_Boy, I love Ryan._

 

Back at the bar, without Ray to keep them in check (come to think of it, even with Ray there it would’ve gone this way, regardless), Michael and Gavin are unsurprisingly both miles past drunk. Actually -

"Hey, you two! You're cut off. Go home, you fucking pair of lov-"

"Fuck offffffff, dickbag," Michael mumbles, sliding off his chair with a surprising amount of grace for someone who has more alcohol than blood running through his veins at the moment. "We're goin', we're goin'."

Try _light years_ past drunk.

Gavin whips his head dramatically in Michael's direction, hair wilder than usual and eyes as bright as anything, perking up but otherwise completely disregarding how they essentially just got kicked out.

Not that Gavin doesn't have his fair share of bars he's banned from in Austin, anyways.

"Did you hear that, Mi-coo? Hmm?" Nudging the brunet, Gavin somehow manages to trip himself but recovers in record time. He giggles loudly as he straightens, winking. "'You pair of lovers,' he was about to say before you ru-udely cut him off. Weren't ya, bloke?"

Gavin directs his last few words to the bartender, expecting him to humour him for some reason (probably beyond the comprehension of people with normal logic), but the man just wordlessly flips Gavin off with a meaty finger and looks pointedly at the exit. Gavin frowns, still stumbling a little.

"Well, that wasn't very...nice."

Not that he expected much else. He loops his arm with Michael's, grounding himself, and sticks his tongue out in the general direction of the counter, disappointed regardless. _Bloody git._

Snorting, Michael heads for the door with his hands firmly stuffed in his jean pockets, barely sparing a glance at the new 120-pound attachment that had sprouted on his right limb. "You deserved it, c'mon Gav. Let's getcha home already." He tugs on the lanky man with his arm, mostly exasperated but also a little (more than a little) fuzzy at the edges about boundaries and all his fronts and _shit, when did I start calling him Gav?_

_Fuck._

Michael suspects that all that started getting a little unclear after the sixth or seventh tequila shot he took – _after_ his couple of beers, to be sort-of-exact – when Gavin decided it would somehow be a real great fucking idea to talk about his buddy Meg, how _great_ she is, how _talented,_ how _pretty,_ how _nice_ – Meg, who, by the way, Michael still cannot fucking tell for the life of him if Gavin is joking about dating or not –; _fuck my life,_ Michael had internally cursed, hand already automatically reaching for the shot glass.

He grins wildly at the invincibility he feels right now, though.

"C'mon, Gav," he repeats, pleased that the bartender's offhand inference about them being lovers slides off him so easily, the words usually sharp enough to dig into him and sting. Not even Gavin turning at the sound of his name with that beautiful, beaming look of his is enough to throw Michael off; not even Gavin's words, casually articulated but like a shot of concentrated nostalgia right to the heart -

"Oka-ay, love! Let's go, let's go!"

It should hurt, but it doesn't.

Michael smiles impossibly wider and steers them both out the door, ache in his chest reduced to a murmur by the booze singing in his veins. He breathes in the cool air outside, revelling in it. Cars rush by on the main road a few paces over, yet another factor in this seemingly never-ending chain of deja vu-inducing events, but it’s okay. It’s all okay.

 _Hey Gav_ , he wants to suddenly say. _What’s the meaning of all this?_

But he already knows that Gavin wouldn’t stumble against the curb this time, spill all his secrets and thoughts and the rest of his soul to him, _this_ Gavin Free would just –

Gavin laughs into Michael's shoulder at the half-heartedly whispered question, leaning the entirety of his body weight on the inexplicable man with the quiet, inexplicable question. “What’re you even on about, Mi-coo?”

Yeah, nothing is quite the same, is it?

Brown eyes shadowed by a half-lidded gaze, Michael presses his lips together as though he wants to explain. But something passes over his expression for a nanosecond and he suddenly shakes his head firmly as though to shake off the cobwebs of something clinging on to his thoughts;

"I - nevermind."

They walk in silence for what seems like ages after that, the fluorescent, orange-tinged streetlamps along the road casting their shadows as one complete figure rather than two separate ones, and Gavin forgets about Michael’s odd behaviour, chalking it up to alcohol, instead vaguely thinking about things like how he rather likes that – the stuff about the shadows melding together, the idea of not being alone – as dumbly poetic and melodramatic as it is, with the shadows just being blobs of absences of light and actually meaning nothing in particular, really.

He scoffs a little at himself for his overthinking.

In any case, he doesn't say anything about it. But Michael seems to glean something off his soft cough somehow, and they slow their already tortoise-paced walking speed to a slow crawl; neither of them are quite sure why they didn't just hail a taxi.

Neither mentions it after the realization that they still could, either.

It winds up being one of those weird sorta nights. By about midnight, Michael's sober enough that he's at least 40% clear-headed, but also still fucked up enough that other things stay stubbornly shoved in the back closet of his mind, but everything still remains a solid give-and-take, a balancing act between acting too friendly and pushing the dumb Brit away –

 _Damn, this is nice though,_ Michael muses. _Getting drunk and hanging out with Gavin isn't too bad, honestly, because nothing fucking hurts._ (In this moment, anyways)

Sure, he's still hopelessly, desperately in love with the idiot. Which has the unfortunate side effect of being acutely aware, even inebriated, of Gavin's presence beside him; of the skin of Gavin's hand brushing against his wrist, his bird-like hip abruptly flush against his own every few minutes whenever Gavin inevitably trips up on the sidewalk and Michael has to pull him back up. But it’s still _nice,_ in that fucked up way that Michael would more than _love_ to blame (or thank?) some higher power like God for.

_Besides -_

He exhales, involuntarily shuddering a little as Gavin's thin, cold fingers find his, slotting perfectly into place in his pocket. Gavin's slow smile isn't lost on him, either.

_Besides, it isn't that bad to pretend for a few minutes, hours, is it?_

(Of course, of-fucking-course it is, Michael knows for damn sure he's just torturing himself with this, but he can't bring himself to give half a shit with Gavin's familiar vanilla musk rubbing off on his hoodie shoulder and his hand in a tight grip, tight enough that he couldn't possibly lose him again -)

"Fuck, I'm going to hate myself for this tomorrow, aren't I?" Michael murmurs, too low for Gavin to hear.

“Mn.” Gavin makes a sound that sounds suspiciously like affirmation somehow; it makes Michael freeze up for a split second and do a double take. Although it turns out just being one of those weird noises of his, one of sheer coincidence, Michael can’t help agree silently.

_Yeah, I already kind of hate myself for this. Jesus._

 

So the invincibility wears off, little by little.

They finally wind up at Geoff’s and Griffon’s – Michael supposes they’re the Ramseys now, collectively – and Michael’s sober enough by now that there’s really no reason to let Gavin continue clinging onto his side, and yet. _And yet._

Michael twists his mouth into a rueful smile as he gently pries Gavin’s hands off him. He announces, “alright Gav, we’re here. Home. Now get inside and you can be clingy at Geoff instead of me or something,” with a bit of hesitation in his tone that Gavin misses entirely.

As a matter of fact, Gavin misses _all of this_ entirely; he might as well be on a different planet with how out of it he is, because by the time they reach the doorbell of the house he’s still stuck about an hour back when he noticed Michael’s bittersweet smile out of the corner of his eye as the brunet whispered things to himself – some poetry must’ve played through that freckled expression of his in that second, something a bit more…something, because Gavin had faltered.

Michael had mistaken it for yet another stumble and paid it no mind, but yes, Gavin _faltered._ On multiple fronts.

He faltered at Michael’s smooth, set features, how _different_ and out of character the man was acting on their walk to wherever, and finally at the feeling conjured by the warm, bittersweet smile that had overtaken Michael’s face without warning when Gavin took his hand out of impulse. Because there was suddenly something awfully sentimental that coiled up on Gavin’s gut at that dimpled, childlike curve of Michael’s lips.

Which is _absurd_ because Gavin didn't come out here to be sentimental or worse (more inexplicably), nostalgic over what seems like nothing at all.

 _Bloody hell, I must still really be drunk,_ Gavin sighs internally. _Getting so emotional over a dumb smile. People smile, you idiot. Indeed, even Michael Jones._

Even so, Gavin remains unsuccessful in his attempts to shrug off the strange feeling of familiarity on their trek from the bar and the sheer genuineness of it all, and by the time he finally gives up, he finds that Michael's led him to the front door of a house, knuckles already against the grain of the wood. Which brings them back to the present.

“Gav? Dude, are you even listening?” Michael is talking, Gavin realizes.

“What?”

“ _Wot?_ ” Michael mimics, shaking his head exasperatedly. “I know you zone out, but _Christ…home,_ Gav. Hello? _”_

Even more confused than before – if that's even possible – Gavin takes a second to process why the bloody hell they’re even knocking on his door when there obviously wouldn't be anyone home since he’s standing on the _outside_ of the familiar-looking home at the present moment. _Although…_ that eventually leads to Gavin remembering that _oh bollocks Gavin Free. You cannot possibly be so sloshed that you can't even remember you don't own a house, for chrissakes. You live in an apartment._

"Mi-coo? Why...why're we at Grif's and Geoff's?" Gavin stage-whispers, scrunching his eyebrows together with some difficulty; his face is a tad too numb so he can't really be sure he's making the proper expression, but it's whatever. It shifts into one of incredulousness half a second later anyways, when he fully registers everything Michael had been saying.

Michael realizes his mistake just as he hears footfalls approaching the door, just as Gavin's mouth opens to ask,

“Did you just call this _home?_ ”

_Shit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The angst-train stops for no one. _No one._
> 
> (I'm a goddamn sucker for parallels between storylines. Props to you if you've spotted any between LCM and TCT thus far, ahaha.)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading?? And commenting and things wow people were _so_ goddamn lovely last chap x
> 
> HXL


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey my dudes i am Alive but just barely

“Home.”

Michael echoes, stepping off the porch. And then, a bit softer, “yeah, huh.”

Fully aware that Gavin’s watching his reaction with a sharp, curious eye – too sharp, in his opinion – he firmly presses his small “o” of a mouth shut. He remembers, just a _bit_ too late: _Idiot Michael, you fucking dumbass. Of course Gavin doesn’t live with Geoff and Griffon anymore._

His brain-to-mouth filter really must be fucked anyhow, because bits of those thoughts crumble up and come tumbling out, too. It’s some small miracle that all he manages to stutter out is “fucking dumbass Gavin” before the door opens.

Griffon sleepily walks out, quizzical. Hair tousled, in pyjamas, trying to gauge what the hell is happening.

Michael decides that his world has already ended a thousand different ways between picking up that godforsaken message from Geoff and now, not to mention the last fucking half a decade, so at this point this is just one more bomb to add to the growing pile of already detonated explosives. What’s one more crater on the moon?

He heaves a sigh and hunches, feeling Gavin silently wiggling his cold fingers back into his jean pocket again.

“Hello, Griffon.”

 

To be fair, Griffon had already expected something like this happening. Especially what with Gavin’s little declaration of how he was going to while away his time for the foreseeable future. Specifically, getting close to Michael again. Even more specifically, breaking his heart, even if Gavin doesn’t quite know about that part. Not explicitly, not yet, at least. And it’s melodramatic as anything, Griffon knows, but everything about love is melodramatic.

She’s still thrown for a loop.

Michael and Gavin, as in _Michael & Gavin _except not quite _,_ standing hand in hand at her doorstep in the dead of night. Hopelessly drunk, too, she guesses; the wind that blows through the two boys ( _men,_ Griffon corrects herself absentmindedly) leaves them suddenly slightly shivering and Gavin sways on his feet, crashing into Michael’s shoulder lightly with an “oof.”

“Who is it? Is everything okay?” Geoff’s voice travels down the stairs as she hears him crawl out of their bedroom.

Gavin starts to say “evening, Geoff!” but Michael viciously claps a hand over the British man’s mouth, stopping him up.

“Shut _up!_ ” Michael hisses, suddenly alert again. Less resigned, maybe.

And Griffon almost laughs, because it’s so nostalgic, the boys being here. After all, how many times had these two shown up after a bar crawl or bevs at a party with college friends? With one or both of them drunk out of their minds, toppling over one another into the house, sometimes straight into the bedroom barely able to keep their hands off each other –

She almost calls back that _it’s just the boys, just Michael and Gavin,_ until she notices how Gavin’s more perplexed than offended, shrugging as if to say, _dunno why we’re even here?_ How, _wait, Griffon,_ there’s something wrong with this picture. The faint smile fades from her lips.

She shakes the sleep from her head and the invitation falls flat on her tongue as she thinks about how this entire thing will seem to Geoff. Michael knows, too.

“Not Geoff,” he mouths, eyes frantic.

“It’s just…” Griffon trails off, standing a little straighter as she locks in on the drowned look on Michael’s face. She feels nauseous, all of a sudden. “…It’s nothing baby, go back to bed.”

Geoff grumbles from upstairs, the door creaking closed behind him, and relief visibly floods Michael’s features. Gavin is still very much confused, Griffon can tell, but she realizes that now she doesn’t know what to say, or do, for that matter. _I was never that great at damage control,_ she thinks, frowning. _I don’t even know what Gavin’s supposed to know Michael knows._

She shouldn’t have worried though, because Michael immediately takes over, talking a mile a minute in a low hush about how nice it is to see her again after that one dinner she and Geoff apparently invited him over for, and that he brought Gavin because he was really hammered but “it’s fine now, he’s obviously not that drunk, haha, what a tool. We’ll just go home now,” Michael finishes before she can even get a word in, edgewise.

Griffon just nods understandably.

“Get home safe,” she says gently, heart tugging at the innocent ignorance swimming in Gavin’s eyes and how the two are still goddamn holding hands so casually; do they know they’re holding hands that casually? Is Michael _okay?_

Cheerfully, Gavin replies, “you know I will, Grif!” but Michael only offers a small tilt of his head before he swiftly turns on his heel to leave and it only amplifies the renewed concern Griffon has for the man and she finds herself  shutting herself out of the house so she can call out, down the driveway:

“Michael, please don’t push yourself so much, I know you still–”

Michael hollers something right back, drowning her out.

Griffon frowns.

She watches as Michael and Gavin book it, laughing, down the road without another word, Michael dragging a squawking Gavin in tow behind him with an iron grip on his wrist. They make it as far as the intersection at the end of the street before Gavin starts wheezing from the burning in his lungs at the physical exertion, the tequila swirling in his stomach not really helping, and there, Griffon loses sight of them.

But she doesn’t move from where she’s leaning against the doorway, not for some time.

When she finally quietly makes her way back up to the bedroom, Geoff’s already started snoring and she climbs back under the duvet next to his warmth, and she hopes.

She doesn’t really know _what_ she’s hoping for, with the whole issue of the dissonance between the theory of keeping out of this entire thing and actually doing so. Especially when her priorities are so fragmented between what Geoff wishes would happen and the reality of it all. But she hopes, mostly, that it’ll work out alright.

Because habits are built up over no small number of old things, and Griffon would’ve never dreamed of addressing Michael outright, especially with Gavin right there, about the past. What she meant to say was, “I know you still need some time,” (to adjust? To feel comfortable? Either would have worked, really) but Michael jumped the other way.

“They deserve to be happy,” Griffon whispers into her pillow.

Because Michael’s mouth said, _who said anything about falling in love?_

But Michael’s face said, _shit, I still adore Gavin, and it’s killing me._

Everything about love is melodramatic.

 

It takes Michael and Gavin another half an hour, give or take, to make it to Gavin’s apartment.

By that point, Gavin’s temples actually hurt a little and he’s a touch lightheaded, which doesn’t happen ever, really, which must be why he’s imagining Michael making weak gestures of defeat and exasperation towards him every other minute. Or maybe he’s just hallucinating now, because wouldn’t that be just the most _fun_ thing to add to his ever-growing list of symptoms of –

“I fucking hate you, Gav. I can’t believe you actually live a motherfucking _block_ from the goddamn bar we were at.”

Or maybe Michael’s just righteously mad, for once. _I forget that was a possibility, actually,_ Gavin muses as Michael continues his rant up the elevator.

“You could’ve given at least half a flying fuck to mention it, maybe?” He pulls a ridiculously wide-eyed, smiley expression. “Like, _allons-y, Mi-coo! My wittle flat, tucked in a right spot! Short trot! We can even see it_ FROM THE BLOODY BAR.” He rounds on the British man, glaring.

Gavin pouts. “Aw, I don’t _really_ talk like that! Stop being so mean –”

“Shut up. You do. You definitely do.”

Honestly, Gavin doesn’t know what the bloody hell happened back there with Griffon and Michael, because that was all downright weird. Even with Michael’s little long-winded, completely unnecessary spiel. (Although admittedly, it did help clear a few things up.)

He’s just secretly glad that Michael didn’t drop him off at the Ramseys’ and leave.

That brings him to the next problem, however: Michael looking at him expectantly, standing in the little foyer of his home, probably waiting for Gavin to tell him _thanks for taking me home, have a good night, goodbye._ And for reasons entirely separate from his douchebag one but no less selfish, Gavin can’t bring himself to.

Instead, what comes out is an unidentifiable noise that makes Gavin want to jump off the balcony, because how hilarious, haha, that in this moment, of all people, Gavin David Free can’t string a bloody sentence together for the life of him to ask someone to spend the night with him.

 _You minging_ prick, Gavin corrects himself internally. _You’re not even asking for him to stay the night_ wink-wink, _you’re just asking him to_ stay.

But he finds himself unable to even do that, and he can tell he’s running out of time to do so because Michael’s sort of pacing in place and chewing the inside of his cheek, eyes rooted to the ground. Like he can’t wait to get out of there.

Gavin exhales, scrubbing his hands over his face. _Get it together._

“Anyways, thanks for having bevs with me tonight Michael, it was fun.” He actually surprises himself with his sincerity. “And for bringing me home, I suppose.”

He amends his sentence quickly as Michael flares up.

“Definitely. _Definitely,_ for walking me back this whole damn way.”

Michael grins a dimpled smile, throwing Gavin off. “Yeah, better be thankful, fucker.”

“Anywho! I-I’m brill now, you’re free to not have to babysit me anymore, thank you,” Gavin jokes with a small stutter, ruffling his own hair ruefully. _But you can, you know. Stay._ The words catch on his pride and don’t come out. Instead, “I can ring you a cab, yeah?”

But Gavin realizes that what Michael must have been waiting for from him was an invitation to step further into his home, with maybe a few shade of nervousness too, and not, in fact, permission to flee the place, because the brunet looks at him sharply as he digests the words before shaking his head hard, hard enough that Gavin feels dizzy and headachy just looking at him.

“Uh…no, then? No cab? I mean, contrary to popular belief, I can take care of myse –”

When Michael cuts him off, it actually surprises and thrills Gavin just a teensy bit, because there’s no mistaking the blazing expression that illuminates Michael’s face this time. He involuntarily shivers at the intensity of it, not sure how he came to deserve this type of loyalty from a man he barely knows, if at all.

Michael shrugs his jacket off, walking into the living room.

“Shut up, you goddamn alcoholic. I’m not leaving you alone. Are you crazy?”

Gavin swallows. “I – okay.”

They sit down on the couch, the springs creaking slightly, and Gavin finds himself at a loss of words yet again. It’s weird, because of all the ways he was planning to get close to Michael, working through a depressive episode while the brunet _worries_ for him wasn’t supposed to be a part of the plot. After all, who the bloody hell goes through the lengths of walking a co-worker home (twice) after a night out? It would have been infinitely easier to call him a cab and call it a day. He twiddles his fingers nervously, glancing sideways at the curly-haired man.

Michael’s brown eyes stare right back at him and Gavin leans away defensively. “What? Now I’m not-alone. What now?”

But all he gets in response is a quirk of Michael’s lips and it confuses him even further because _I cannot bloody read Michael Jones for the life of me._ He stands to grab a glass of water; to get a little space.

“A-anyways, what’s wrong with being bevved up? We all had bevs tonight, it’s not like I’m the only one who drank.” The cup clinks against the counter as he sets it down, the weird feeling in his chest settling in again. He continues talking, back facing the couch. “You’ve been acting all weird all night, Michael. The thing with Grif and Geoff, too – why do you care so much? I mean, it’s lovely and I think I sound a tad rude, but –”

Startled, Gavin almost drops his glass. He had turned and Michael was standing right there in front of him, close enough that he can feel his body warmth radiating. His words die in his mouth; he barely registers the cold splash of water against his feet as he sees Michael calmly turn off the faucet behind them.

His shoulder brushes against Gavin’s and Gavin subconsciously leans in before pulling himself away. _Good god, get a hold of yourself._

“You left the water running,” Michael says helpfully, ignoring the physical contact and, well, a lot of other things as well. “But I’m calling bullshit on your argument, ‘cause you don’t ever drink for the right reasons.” He takes the glass from Gavin and takes a sip before handing it back and Gavin’s heart leaps into his throat. He snatches the water back.

“What would you know about _my_ reasons?” He snaps.

“I know that self-medicating with alcohol is a dumb fucking plan,” Michael retorts.

“You speaking from experience?”

A snort. “Nah. Not really, not technically. I guess. I guess I drink a lot more than I used to. But it’s still not the same thing, if you know what I mean.” Another glare that makes Gavin inhale sharply. _There’s no way Michael knows. How would he know?_ “But I knew a guy, once.”

Gavin looks at him curiously this time, his defensiveness fading at the mention of Michael’s background (or lack thereof). He leans against the counter. “Once,” he echoes. “What happened to him?”

Michael sinks back on the couch and oh – there it is again – that strange, bittersweet grimace that departs from his usual scowl enough that it makes Gavin wonder what the hell would warrant it. What sort of memory, what would elicit this level of emotion from someone like Michael _bloody_ Jones –

“Nothing.” Michael’s face becomes stony again in half a second.

“Nothing? That isn’t – that doesn’t even answer my question, Michael!” Gavin complains, growing more interested.

He walks over and plops down on the coffee table, facing the brunet. “Hmm? Did he turn out okay? Give me, the resident alcoholic, a little hope, will you?” He laughs lightheartedly, but Michael doesn’t join in. Instead, a flash of something runs across his face.

“I mean, you did say something to Grif that didn’t make much sense, because I think you’re pretty good-looking even if you have a shite personality most of the time –”

Deep down, Gavin knows he’s pushing too hard, that he’s going to ruin the whole Michael-will-fall-in-love-with-me thing and quite possibly even the Michael-will-be-friends-with-me thing, but it’s all overridden by his curiosity. And maybe still, _still_ a bit of booze. It’s quite possible, really.

“– and when you’re not focused on being a right prick to everyone around you, you’re quite decent to talk to, so you have to have had _some_ sort of thing, right? I mean, people can be shallow, I would know, but romance, love, the whole bit –”

“Gavin, shut up. You’re still drunk.” Michael’s voice is level, but fraying.

Michael’s probably right. His tongue is too loose and he really needs to shut the hell _up_ because he doesn’t even know where he’s going with this and he’s being awful, but. _But._ That look on Michael’s _face_ -

 _“_ Why don’t you want to fall in love? What if it just, I dunno, _happens?_ ”

“ _Gavin._ ”

He eagerly asks, “Were you in love with _him_?”

Next thing Gavin knows his back thuds against the coffee table, the breath knocked out of his lungs. Michael’s eyes are fiery, furious; Gavin subconsciously scoots up the wood top even though his shoulder blades kill. He wisely shuts his mouth.

 _Too far. You minged it._ The snarl that escapes Michael’s mouth as he looks down on him certainly cements the sentiment: “That’s none of your motherfucking business, _Free._ ”

But as soon as Michael says it he just looks tired again, rubbing a hand over his face and wearily extending a hand. As he helps Gavin up, he apologizes, to Gavin’s utter surprise. To the point that he feels lightheaded all over again, and some weird pain in his chest.

_Bloody hell, I think I’m having a heart attack. Or maybe a crisis of morality. Probably the latter. I wish it was the former._

“No, no,” he protests, hopping upright and feeling guilty as all hell. “I was being too much, I was out of line. Shouldn’t have assumed anything.”

Michael just frowns and grabs Gavin’s face in his hands, turning his head for him to check that he didn’t bang his head. And the worry that lines his freckled features serves only to make Gavin feel even worse about his little ulterior motives, because all of it suddenly doesn’t seem as _fun_ anymore what with Michael obviously being hung up over _something_. Something important.

His conscience knifes him in the chest a second time for good measure.

“It’s okay,” Michael murmurs, ruffling Gavin’s short hair distractedly as he lets go. “Doesn’t matter. I am bi, so you’re not wrong on that count. But for the record, I don’t have any interest in… _love_ and that stuff – I don’t care about any of that, alright? It’s bullshit. I don’t want anyone to ever love me again.”

_Again._

Yeah, Michael Jones has something about him that…

“Christ, I’m so sorry,” Gavin blurts, nearly accidentally spilling the reasons why he came out tonight in the first place.

Michael just smiles that dimpled, vague smile of his and pushes Gavin gently towards the bedroom. “Just go to sleep, you fucking idiot.” And _fucking idiot_ shouldn’t sound like a term of endearment to Gavin but it does, somehow, and he beams right back.

He skips into his mess of a room, knocking away some empty bottles and a lighter carelessly to set down his phone, ignoring the ten million missed calls from Griffon and Ryan. And he doesn’t know what he expected when he turned around to face Michael expectantly, but Michael staring at him from the doorway with a soft expression wasn’t it at all.

“Go to sleep, Gav,” Michael repeats. “I’ll be here in the morning.”

“Where are you going to sleep? The couch is honestly a tad small for you –”

“The couch is fine,” Michael insists.

But Gavin just wouldn’t fucking have it, suddenly yelling something about “bad hospitality” and how “Ryan would be ashamed.” He pulls his best crestfallen expression and Michael knows he notices how he swallows a little too hard at his clear, green eyes and puppy-dog gaze. “I’d feel terrible, Michael. C’mon, there’s only one bed but it’s big enough for both of us, yeah?”

Unselfish. Sincere. Free of ulterior motives.

Maybe there’s still a sliver of invincibility in Michael’s veins yet, because he finds himself slowly agreeing. Before Michael knows it, he’s borrowing a new toothbrush from Gavin and changing into a pair of his pyjamas and laughing about the thin line of milk Gavin accidentally doesn’t wipe off from his top lip; before he knows it, he’s lying under a duvet with Gavin right beside him, less than a foot apart. Michael stares at the dark ceiling, wondering how the fuck it wound up being something like this.

“Goodnight,” Gavin yawns, unbothered, tugging on the covers. “Wake me up when you get up or something, alright? I could sleep forever if you leave me unchecked, it’s bloody awful.”

“I’ll make sure you don’t choke on your own puke in the middle of the night,” Michael jokes.

“Mn yeah. Thanks, love,” Gavin mumbles sleepily, and he’s sound asleep in two minutes flat.

When the British man starts snoring lightly, Michael rolls his eyes and resists the urge to throw a pillow over his face, flipping on his side to prop his head up with an elbow. Watching Gavin’s chest rise and fall lightly, the man’s bright, enthusiastic question rushes to mind suddenly.

_Were you in love with him?_

Michael bites his lip, gently reaching over to run a hand along Gavin’s cheek, every curve, every sharp angle familiar. The man sighs in his sleep suddenly and Michael’s eyes widen, ripping his hand back. But Gavin just mumbles something and shifts closer, hitting Michael in the face with a flying limb. “Fuc–”

Michael groans and clutches his face, rolling away from the offending arm.

“Definitely not,” he mutters. “Not with this fucking pile of bones.”

But when Gavin tosses in bed again later that night (more early morning, actually), he ends up pressed up against Michael’s back, his limbs tangled up with Michael’s or otherwise splayed out in some ridiculous fashion and Michael falls asleep like that, with Gavin’s body warmth mingling with his and the man’s light breathing tickling his neck.

He sleeps better that night than he has in ages.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chloe: "I also think about muscle memory. How there is a good chance Gavin wrapped himself around Michael in his sleep because even if his brain forgot his body still remembers the touch"
> 
> Also Chloe: "fucking satan"
> 
> Thanks for reading ! ! thanks for existing. thx in general. 
> 
> HXL


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys! ! i know it seems like I've been dropping off the face of the earth and resurfacing like..every month in time to post a new chap but I've been doing a lot better now (in general??) so mayb more updates sooner. not sure tho. (-: 
> 
> I am still active on [Tumblr](http://p-ercolating.tumblr.com), however! If you follow me there I dumped a couple prompt fills there in the time between this chapter and the last, as well as some weird fahc-inspired poetry...plus a sneak peek to this chapter. (^: (^: (^: so the beginning part of this may sound familiar to some of you.
> 
> Apologies for how long this took to get up on ao3?? It's been on Tumblr dot com for a couple days now.
> 
> ***[edit]: pls see a/n at end.**

 

In the early morning, sunshine slowly begins filtering through the blinds in a dull glow. It catches in Gavin’s hair and Michael wakes up to that golden shine in his eyes, to the pleasant surprise of Gavin sleepily crawling on top of him and falling asleep there again.

“You’re heavy, Gavin,” Michael murmurs with a slow smile. He runs a hand across the small of Gavin’s back anyways, lightly tracing his spine up to the nape of his neck, Gavin mumbling something in response. His breath is hot and comforting on Michael’s skin.

“Michael,” Gavin softly says in his sleep. He nuzzles closer. “ _My_ Michael.”

Something suddenly brims near-full in Michael’s chest. He draws both arms around Gavin and holds him there tightly, as if letting go would mean the other man, already feather-light, would disappear entirely. He wants to shout to the heavens about how lucky he is to feel so damn _whole_ in this slice of his existence too, but it’s too early in the morning so he just cradles Gavin impossibly close and breathes in his vanilla musk.

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” Michael breathes, all ferocious adoration and heart and perhaps something broken, too; “I love you Gavin. With all my heart, okay?”

And he doesn’t expect a response, but Gavin startles him with a whispered “okay,” sleep still in his voice, and Michael can’t even put the spinning in his head into words but everything is overflowing in his heart so impulsively, he gently flips Gavin over, the man landing on his back with a soft gasp, and Michael takes Gavin’s face in his hands. Sleepy green eyes stare up at him.

“Mn, morning.” Gavin grins.

“Morning, Gav.” Michael runs his thumb along a sharp cheekbone and again across Gavin’s lower lip. Gavin sighs as Michael leans in to kiss him gently on the forehead; cheek; mouth. And again, and again, and again. All softness and gentle saturated happiness.

Gavin, fully awake now, giggles at the way Michael’s eyelashes tickle the corners of his eyes and he tangles his thin fingers in Michael’s unruly curls, pulling him in.

“This side of you is cute, love. But what’s this about?”

“Nothing, I’m just happy,” Michael mumbles into Gavin’s hair, hugging him hard. “Just…really happy.”

“Well, I love you too, my lovely little Michael.”

Then Michael _actually_ wakes up. He opens his eyes and Gavin’s right there, still peacefully asleep with the sun in his hair and a little drool on the side of his mouth, not having said a single thing at all.

 _“FUCK!”_ resounds through the room and the wall trembles.

 

Gavin had drifted in and out of sleep that morning. He woke up slowly – he’s always been notorious for that, not being able to be awake at an exact time – and it was one of those mornings where he was feeling spectacular for no reason in particular. And _warm._ And comfortable. He opened his eyes just a crack and his view was filled with long eyelashes, freckles, and a cupid’s bow mouth. There was an arm fit snugly around his waist.

“Mn.” Relaxed and happy, Gavin leaned into the warmth and fell asleep again.

But when he woke up again a while later, less gradually and more out of alarm due to the sound of something thudding against the wall with a loud _bang,_ he frowned to himself with his eyes still closed and reprocessed the earlier feeling. _There was a person. In my house. In my_ bed. _How did –_

So in other words, Gavin _actually_ gets up that morning in a state of total confusion and panic.

“What the bloody hell?” He bolts upright and shoves the duvet off of himself, whipping around.

The other side of his bed is empty.

Gavin scrunches his eyebrows together and relaxes an infinitesimally small degree before the sound of the microwave going off in the kitchen makes him tense up again, jumping a thousand feet into the air. _There is! There_ is _someone in the house, oh lord, I’m going to get mullered. What was I doing last night again?_

“H-hello?” His voice comes out high-pitched and edgy. “Good morning?”

To his relief, it’s Michael Jones who opens the bedroom door, apron on with an eyebrow raised. Gavin almost snaps his fingers as two and two clicked together in his head.

“Hey, morning. What’s with that shocked look? Hey – get the fuck up, Gavin!”

Gavin offers an absentminded smile as he sinks back down into bed. _Right, I was out having bevs with Michael last night. And he brought me home. How nice._ When he looks up again, Michael has already marched back over next to the bed, huffing indignantly.

“C’mon, get your ass up. We’re fucking late for work.”

Gavin’s eyes widen and he looks at his clock – 11:02AM.

“Damn, damn! We are, oh lord.” Gavin curses, running for the washroom at breakneck speed. “Michael, why didn’t you wake me?”

Turning pink, Michael crosses his arms. “You uh, just weren’t fucking waking up, alright? So I made some breakfast but we really gotta fucking go, like, _now._ ”

“I know, I know! Going!” Shouting through a mouth full of toothpaste, Gavin desperately tries to fix his hair with his remaining hand but isn’t met with much success. Michael cringes at his vocal volume, evidently somewhat hungover, but sighs and walks over anyways. He holds out his hands.

“Here, fucking…just fucking stop. Give me that.”

“What? Oh!”

Michael grabs the gel out of his hand and styles his hair for him, which actually falls more along the lines of unmethodically tousling Gavin’s hair to oblivion. Gavin almost makes to complain but stops once he realises that _hey, that’s actually pretty decent._ Though, he does let out a yell when Michael wipes his hands on his jeans and hits Gavin in the back of his head, making him gag on his toothbrush.

“Get your shit together, I want to be in by lunch.” Without another word, Michael heads out of the washroom.

And Gavin does indeed get his shit together, for by the time 11:30 rolls around he’s respectable, fully dressed, having eaten a fantastic breakfast (courtesy of Michael), and ready to (finally) head in to work. Michael’s already waiting in the living room, frowning at his phone and jostling his leg on the stool, apron gone. Gavin notices that the side of his one hand is vaguely red.

They end up calling a cab. On the ride over, Michael is pretty much silent, not offering much in the way of conversation and instead staring out the car window. Understandable, given he probably has a hangover. Gavin chews his lip thoughtfully and stares at the back of Michael’s curly-haired head, replaying the events of the night prior in his head.

By the time the cab pulls up at the Rooster Teeth building, Gavin’s smile has eaten up his entire face.

“Hey, Michael.”

“What?”

“You were great last night, thanks for hanging out with me and sticking around!” Gavin beams, paying the driver and hopping out of the car.

Michael shoves his hands in his pockets and winces at the glaring sun overhead. “Yeah, no problem. Wasn’t much.”

 _But that’s just not true._ Gavin pouts, coming to a halt.

“Stop, you were nothing short of extraordinary. Walking me back, making breakfast, everything. To be honest, I thought you were a bit of an arse before, but you’re actually such a sweetheart – hey!”

Michael punches Gavin lightly in the arm, turning red again. “Shut the fuck up. Anyone else would’ve done the same.”

Gavin laughs and skips to the doors, calling back.

“I’m just saying you’re quite alright, yeah?”

With a small smile, Michael nods and heads inside after him.

They’re met with very little commotion in the office – Jack does look a bit worried and Geoff does let out a weirdly gargled noise when Michael lies for some reason and tells him he went to go check on Gavin this morning and picked him up for work, but Jeremy just plays along as he does. Ryan and Ray are noticeably absent.

Geoff mutters something about having enough content backlogged to last them for some time but still looks peeved as he plunks back down into his chair and side-eyes Michael and Gavin, fingers drumming the table. Gavin just snickers at the expression on his face and leans into Michael. Michael doesn’t lean away.

“Hey, I think Geoff’s _pissed._ ”

“I have nooo idea why,” Michael rolls his eyes but grins back. “Should we do some editing to make him happy again?”

“Hell no.”

So they don’t. They muck about in the office for the afternoon, which in their defense was slow in general. Geoff’s mood improves little by little over the course of the day what with Michael and Gavin getting along markedly better now than even just before the weekend, but he yells at them anyways when Gavin dares Michael to kick down a door for whatever reason and _surprise,_ Michael does it. Or tries to.

Three kicks (and probably a broken femur later), Geoff is howling with laughter at Michael rolling around on the carpet clutching his leg with a face of regret.

“I can’t be– I can’t believe you actually did it, dude!” Geoff wheezes, hitting the table.

“How was I supposed to know it was that fucking sturdy?” Michael yells. “Thought we were on a fucking budget and had cardboard doors, not this reinforced steel shit –”

Gavin laughs, the iPhone he’s recording with positively _shaking_ , and keeps his mouth shut, deciding that it’s best Michael doesn’t know that Jeremy was on the other side of the door holding it in place. Best for Gavin’s own well-being, in any case. He giggles to himself.

“Aw Michael, you’ll be alright. Look at you, being so brave -” Gavin sneaks up to him, iPhone still in hand, and zooms in on Michael’s pained expression only to be met with an angry huff and the middle finger. Michael groans at the exertion and splays back out into starfish formation on the carpet, having given up on recovering. Gavin grins. “You look like you’re getting quite comfortable, regardless.”

Michael crosses his arms and glares but doesn’t budge an inch from where he lays because even at the expense of proving Gavin right, he’s far from inclined to get back up after his defeat by door. That is, until he realizes his head is lying in the general vicinity of Gavin’s desk and there’s fucking chip crumbs, soggy carpet and god-knows-what-else _everywhere_.

The horror on his face is clear as he lifts his head slightly so it isn’t making contact with the floor. Some _bits_ stick to his curly hair as he does. Geoff whistles and Michael hears something sounding like “ _that’s_ disgusting, dude” coming from the direction of where Jack’s sitting.

Gavin bursts out laughing again, positively squealing as he doubled over. “I-I was wonder when you’d notice! Oh, wait, MICHAEL N-” He lets out a scream.

“You motherfucker!”

Michael shoots up on his feet, lightning fast, and tackles Gavin into their red bean bag with an angry but playful shout. Squawking in terror the whole way, Gavin goes down just like that. His iPhone sails through the air and lands with a sound that doesn’t bode well, but the sound of his screen breaking is lost amidst the laughter that Michael and Gavin simultaneously dissolve into as Michael lands on top of Gavin and Gavin’s shin makes contact against Michael’s crotch.

Instantly, there’s a shocked gasp from Gavin in unison with Michael’s punched-out sounding groan. Jeremy, Jack and Geoff all make loud noises in sympathy, cringing on the sidelines.

“Oh lord, Michael!” Gavin cries out, giggling as he scrambles off. “Are you okay, boi?”

“Do I _look_ okay to you?” Michael hisses, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. “And since when am I _boi_ to you?”

And Gavin frowns a little at that because it’s weird how normal the word falls on the tongue, even though he’s been calling Jeremy and Ray _boi_ for some time now. The term just seems..right for Michael. Plus, he isn’t doing his little freak-out over it anymore, which is marvelous.

Glancing amusedly at the two men curled up on the bean bag together, Jeremy chuckles and sweeps up Gavin’s (now cracked) iPhone from the floor, smartly hitting _stop_ on the recording.

“Since now, apparently,” he remarks. “After all, Gavin’s touched your dick now; it doesn’t get much more intimate than that.”

Michael glares daggers at Jeremy that are a bit too venomous in Gavin’s opinion, but the murderous look instantly dies out as Michael turns to Gavin and suddenly asks, “hey, you didn’t get hurt when I tackled you, did you?” as if he wasn’t the one that just got hit in the bloody balls.

Gavin shakes his head as Geoff makes yet another suspiciously gargled sound off to the side.

“Nope, I’m fine and dandy.” Gavin grins and wiggles his body to demonstrate, realizing that he was really quiet and that probably worried Michael. With that affirmation, Michael grins right back and ruffles Gavin’s hair before getting up to go back to his desk.

Gavin’s left on the bean bag on his own and he smiles to himself at Michael’s touch. Right on cue, Michael turns back to look at him as he puts his headphones on, eyebrow raised. _You good?_ He seemed to say.

Gavin beams up at him to say _excellent, actually,_ and that’s when it suddenly really hits Gavin that _yes_ _wow, everything_ is _astoundingly_ good _right now._

The thought is dizzying and persists for the rest of the afternoon well into the evening because Gavin can’t remember the last time he was this content. Not just okay or even feeling acceptable – _content._ The only frustrating thing is that while he’s bursting with energy, he couldn’t tell anyone about this because even if he did tell someone “I’m happy today!” he can already imagine the standard reply: “uh, that’s great dude.”

It sizzles out a little bit at that thought.

But it doesn’t change anything, not really, and Gavin gets home that night with a spring in his step and humming nonsensical tunes, ready to be productive as anything. Maybe do some dishes. Or some laundry. And just generally get shit together.

That winds up turning up a blank apart from the laundry, however, because to Gavin’s utter confusion, the apartment he bounces into is completely _clean._

It’s so clean, in fact, that Gavin has to retrace his steps and take a look at the number on the door.

“Yep, definitely my flat,” Gavin mutters to himself, weirded out. Frowning, he re-enters and puts his hands on his hips, scanning the living room and kitchen areas. No bottles, no garbage, no anything apart from a glass half-full of water and two plates from breakfast this morning.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, startling him out of his mystified silence.

 **[6:03:11 PM] Unknown:** hey forgot to tell you i cleaned up your shit in case you didn’t notice  
**[6:03:28 PM] Unknown:** cut back on the booze, idiot  
**[6:03:40 PM] Unknown:** and i also found your weed stash

Gavin squawks. For some reason, his first guess runs straight to a burglar in his house who also happens to also be tidy and also very, very courteous, but that would be just ridiculous. Crossing that off, that would just logically leave one other person.

 **[6:04:20 PM] Gavin Free:** Ryan? Is this where you were today? And did you get a new phone? O:

A pause. Then -

 **[6:06:49 PM] Unknown:** HOW THE FUCK DID YOU GET RYAN FROM THAT  
**[6:06:51 PM] Unknown:** IT’S MICHAEL, YOU GODDAMN IDIOT

“OH,” Gavin exclaims out loud. And then in a mutter, “that makes a whole lot more sense, actually.” Snickering at himself, he realizes he must’ve not noticed in the morning in the rush to get to work and all. Whoops. Tilting his head back on the couch and staring at the ceiling, he grabs his phone again to reply. His lips creep up into a smile as he does.

 **[6:07:02 PM] Gavin Free:** sorry Michael! (:  
**[6:07:05 PM] Gavin Free:** my bad.  
**[6:07:06 PM] Gavin Free:** thank you! you didn’t have to <3

Gavin can already tell what Michael’s response would be. Just as he quickly changes the contact name for the number, his phone buzzes in his hand again with a message to prove him right. Flipping back to the text, he reads:

 **[6:08:07 PM] Michael Jones:** well, I already did. So shut up.

Gavin smiles widely to himself and curls up more comfortably on the couch, humming happily. _What a good day,_ he thinks. _I’m feeling great._

Although, that growing happiness is accompanied by a nagging, warm feeling that says Gavin’s forgetting something important. It’s not until three hours later, well into his back-and-forth texting with Michael, that he has to grab his phone charger from his bedroom and it finally dawns on him.

Michael’s pyjamas he borrowed from Gavin are folded with care and set atop the dresser. The laundry basket is piled full and in the corner tucked neatly away in a box are a slew of organized empty glass bottles with a note taped to the front scrawled: _donate these, fucker._ Finally, the bed is the only thing in the room that isn’t neat, but that would be about it.

“Jesus,” Gavin says softly, dropping both phone and charger on the bed as he grasps how much effort Michael must’ve put into tidying up his place for him. How much care.  His mind flashes back to the morning, to his own dream of Michael’s arms wrapped around him in an embrace like his subconscious was trying to tell himself something, to Michael in that dumb apron Gavin got from Geoff as a joke, to breakfast and Michael gelling his hair for him and his crooked, dimpled smile - Gavin’s stomach explodes into a thousand butterflies.

Fumbling for his phone again, Gavin hits _call_ and shoves it to his ear, hands shaking slightly with the realization.

_He spent the night. And then I had a bloody dream about cuddling Michael. He cleaned my place for me. Who does that? Who even does that? Who’s that nice? I’m certainly not that nice, I can’t believe –_

“He-ey! Gavin, it’s really late at night, why in the world are you calling?” There’s laughter in Meg’s cheerful voice as she picks up. It fades, though, when Gavin doesn’t reply immediately. More seriously, she goes, “Gavin? Is everything alright?”

“Everything is most certainly not alright.” Gavin paces in his room, nervously fiddling with his shirt hem. “I have no idea what I’m doing! It was just _one day._ Or one night and then a day, technically, and on Valentine’s Day of all the possible...It was just supposed to be fun - Christ, I have no idea what I’m doing, I’ve never done this before, not to mention we _just_ had this convo about how he’s still in -”

“Woah, slow down, slow _down.”_ Meg cuts him off, and Gavin can almost see the concentrated frown on her face. “Take a breath, you’re not really making any sense -”

_This is a whole lot different than I imagined._

Heart racing, Gavin blurts, “Turney, I think I’m in love.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [edit 22/04/16: hi rmb when i said i was doing better,, in fact, i am, Not,  
> so, ive been taking a short break from ao3 and tumblr while i try to keep myself together which is why you probably havent seen me around on either platforms much at all as of late. im sincerely, sincerely sorry for promising quicker updates and then falling through like this hahaha,,,,   
> hopefully i'll be back soon! mid may. maybe not.  
> hopefully.
> 
> thanks for reading as always. <3
> 
> HXL


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tfw u disappear off the face of the earth for 2 months and everyone thinks you're dead
> 
> im alive my friends ! and i am also Sorry, my beta's been v busy with school and other things (like going to Kinda Funny live, gdi) and I'm really bad at approaching people to remind them of things,, so as a result, this chapter goes unbeta'd. Hope it's ok. (^: ..

“You’re in _love?_ ”

Meg’s exclamation is loud and delighted. _Gavin’s in love._ She can practically hear Gavin cringing on the other end of the line, but it doesn’t matter. This is _big._ Especially for Gavin Free. There’s a little scuffle as Gavin rubs his jaw uncomfortably. His voice comes through again.

“Uh…yeah, I guess.” The reaffirmation lacks zeal. Meg frowns and leans against her counter.

“What’s wrong?”

A lengthy pause before Gavin replies again, quieter this time.

“I don’t know. Turney, I’m…I feel like I’m overreacting. Sorry. Called you on a spur-of-the-moment kinda thing, yeah? But now that I’m thinking about it…”

Meg pushes herself up and sternly stares at her phone as if that would get the point across. “Hey. Hey. But nothing. This is _important.”_

“I guess.”

 _Are you kidding me?_ She wants to say, but bites her tongue because this is just how Gavin is. Instead, “Gavin, you’re only ever reckless with things that don’t matter – don’t argue with me on this – so it’s easy to tell this is really big for you from how uncertain you are, okay? Look, want me to come over and we can talk about it?”

Her voice softer, less insistent, and her eyes crinkle as Gavin more or less resigns with a feeble comment about how late it is and how they have work tomorrow.

Meg laughs, springing into her bedroom to grab her wallet. “Don’t be silly, Gavin. I’ll be there in 10!”

It was closer to half an hour. Nevertheless, when she finally gets there and quietly lets herself in, Gavin is patiently sitting on his living room floor, nervously drumming his fingers against his coffee table. His head shoots up at the soft sound of the door opening and he relaxes once he meets Meg’s warm eyes.

“Hey,” he says lightly, sounding high-strung anyways. _A first,_ Meg thinks.

“Hey, you.” Shrugging off her jacket, Meg grabs a pillow off the couch and plops down across from him on the floor. She puts her chin in her hands and studies Gavin curiously. The air is a lot tenser than she would like. “So what’s up? Want to tell me about it?”

Gavin slowly nods, crossing his arms as he stares back. “I…uh. Yeah. I mean, I already said it over the phone, but anyways. This is really weird to me. I think I lo– l– li–” He trips up on his words and bites his lip. “Ah, it feels dumb to say it.”

“Does it? I won’t think it’s dumb, Gavin.”

But that just makes Gavin retract further, mouth creasing into a frown. Meg can tell it’s really bothering him so she inclines her head with a questioning but encouraging look. Gavin opens and closes his mouth a couple times before finding the right words.

“I just think it’s a bit _sudden,_ don’t you think?” he says, rushing through it. “What if it isn’t real? It feels a bit too…intense? I don’t think it should be this intense, Turney. What if I only like them because I want to like someone? Or just because they were really nice to me?”

Meg already has her hands in his before he’s done talking, a rueful smile on his lips. She takes a deep breath, extremely happy that Gavin’s opening up about these things.

“Look, if you feel it, it’s real. Just like…yeah. It’s there, okay? And it’s probably been building for a while. You’re just clueless when it comes to certain things, surprisingly, Gavin.”

She snorts at Gavin’s affronted look. “Don’t look at me like that, you know you are.”

“But you can’t say these aren’t valid worries.” Voice high.

“Gavin, I will never tell you anything you think isn’t valid,” Meg says quietly, and Gavin clams up because he believes her. After all, that’s why she’s the only one out of everyone who knows what goes on in his head most of the time. Her voice cuts through his thoughts though, much more cheerful than before.

“Anyways, who? You think you like…?” She supplies, nodding him on.

Gavin flushes pink. The words tumble out of him whether he likes it or not.

“Michael, he finishes. “Jones.”

“Michael Jones,” Meg echoes, running the name through her head as she brushes her hair back. “Michael Jones. Michael. Jones. Mi– _ohh!”_

If it weren’t for the fact it was very nearly midnight, Meg would have shrieked to high heaven at that very moment. Even so, she breaks into a brilliant smile. Heart melting at the petulant, childlike expression on Gavin’s face, a small gasp sneakily escapes her lips.

She thinks of the freckled, fair man she’s seen around the Achievement Hunter office. Brown eyes. Curly hair that’s wild in a way much different from Gavin’s carefully constructed chaos.

“Michael!” Meg laughs loudly, wrapping her arms around Gavin and rubbing his back. She looked up at the ceiling. “Who would’ve guessed?”

Gavin’s answer surprised her despite everything. She had caught glimmers of it. Small things, like glances in the office and worming him into conversation more often than not. _Michael Jones,_ she mused, _as in the man Gavin’s been sniping about ever since he got hired. Well._

Remembering something, she giggles into Gavin’s shoulder just as Gavin squeezes her waist with a small, shell-shocked-sounding “mhm,” as if he could hardly believe it himself. Then, pouting at her chuckle, he pulls her to arm’s length.

Holding her by the shoulders, he asks, “What’s so funny?”

 _What’s so funny, he asks,_ Meg thought to herself. _What’s so funny –_

She bursts into full-blown fits of giggling as she covers her mouth with her hands. Breathy laughs come through regardless and shake her small frame. She’s nearly laughing too hard to even explain, to Gavin’s bemusement.

“Remember – remember when I mentioned – and then you said, you’re ‘most certainly not interested in Michael _bloody –”_

Gavin freezes and lets out a screech.

“Turney! Lord, shh – shut _up_ ,” he exclaims as he shoves her away lightly, flustered as anything. “I – it’s not – stop laughing – d– how do you even _remember_ that?”

Toppling over like a feather, Meg finally catches her breath and shifts to rest her head on Gavin’s knee. Gavin is still sputtering as she looks up at him, eyes bright. She pokes his neck and he squirms.

 “Oh, I’m just glad for you, okay? Even if he seems like a surly kind of guy, I trust you to be a good judge of character. Obviously, I don’t know much about all of this but this is good. This is good for you.”

Gavin nods silently as he’s filled with gratitude. He swallows, hard, as Meg grins happily.

Meg, who came over in the middle of the night for something as trifling as this.

Meg, who would wait for him to elaborate if he wanted to when he’s ready to talk properly.

So they stay where they are for some time, Gavin absentmindedly running his fingers through Meg’s soft hair, until the moon is high in the sky and the moonlight is filtering through the curtains in a dim white glow.

Meg is very nearly asleep when Gavin suddenly talks again.

“He’s not as angry as I thought he was, you know. Or awful,” he murmurs, the past couple of days stuck in his head playing over and over again. “He’s actually really nice, Turney. And I’m sure he has his reasons for being the way he is. Most of it seems like a front.” _I would know what that’s like._ “In fact, it’s kind of weird how nice he is, now that I know.”

Pulling herself upright, Meg breaks into a small yawn. She cocks her head, blinking away the sleep in her eyes. “Nice how?”

“For one, he cleaned my damn flat for me?” Gavin recrosses his legs sheepishly, admitting, “I can’t believe you didn’t notice as soon as you came in, love. I swear I thought I walked into the wrong place.”

Now that Meg takes a look around, she realizes Gavin has a point. The counters are clear and there’s nothing out of place. She’s never seen the apartment this nice save for the day after the one time Griffon came over to visit and was absolutely appalled at the state of Gavin’s living area, taking it upon herself to tidy everything up.

It had reverted back to normal in less than two days.

But anyways. “Yeah, wow. Did he actually?” Meg marvels, turning back to face Gavin. “Seriously, Gavin. Just marry him.”

“He also stayed the night,” Gavin says in a small voice, making Meg’s eyebrows hike up.

“He did _what?_ ” This time, it really is a shriek.

Someone living above them bangs on the floorboards angrily and Meg’s eyes widen like a child getting caught. She dips down and hunches, shushing herself, but once she makes eye contact with Gavin she joins in on his snickering and they bump foreheads, laughing quietly to themselves.

“Oh, shut up, you’re just as loud,” Meg whispers. “But _do_ tell me more. I’d love to know.”

So now that Gavin’s gotten over his initial awkwardness – at being so emotionally vulnerable, Meg suspects – words start spilling out of his mouth like a dam breaking. All sorts of things about Michael Jones because it as it seems, Gavin has been paying much closer attention to Michael Jones than he led himself to believe. Big things, like what happened on Valentine’s Day and the day after, and small things, too, like mannerisms and tiny habits. Things that could only be caught at a glance by someone who was looking. Rare smiles. Acts of kindness.

Before they know it, the sun is already rising.

 

Michael swears he’s never fucking drinking with Gavin ever again. Which is such a goddamn transparent lie, but what the fuck. A man can try. But speaking of Gavin – jostling his leg restlessly underneath his desk, Michael gives the office door yet another cursory glance, his twentieth in five minutes.

 _Where the fuck is he?_ Michael thinks furiously. _God, what if I fucked it up. I shouldn’t have touched his stuff. That was way off limits. He probably thinks I’m weird as fuck._ _I mean, who even does that?_

_But like, he was acting fine yesterday, so…?_

Michael bites the inside of his cheek as he suddenly remembers last night. _Shit. Right. I was texting him._ Gavin had dropped off without warning in the middle of their conversation about bread or something, and he hasn’t heard from him since.

It’s almost _noon_. Michael is fed up with waiting and turns in his chair. “Hey Ryan, do you know where –”

As if right on cue, Gavin’s laughter rings through the hallway outside the office then and half a second after that, he comes through the door loudly and with a skip in his step, looking tired but energetic. His hair is messier than usual.

Michael immediately perks up but makes himself turn back to his monitor. _Don’t be weird about it, Michael. Just be normal._ After a few seconds, he slowly swivels around and pretends to only just notice Gavin walking in. He forces the corners of his lips down. _Normal._

“Morning Gav – oh.”

The greeting dies on his lips as Meg Turney bounds into the room right after him. Michael’s eyes zero in on her thin arm hooked around Gavin’s.

“Morning, everyone!” She chirps, voice bright and high, having not noticed Michael yet. There’s a collective reply between all the people currently in the office, murmurs of “good morning” and “hey Meg”, and she breaks into a smile at the response just as Michael lets his hand drop into his lap with a dull thud.

“Hi,” Michael flatly says, a beat later than everyone else.

And his response wasn’t anything much at all, but for some reason it makes Gavin and Meg exchange meaningful glances between one another and _that_ makes Michael’s anxiety skyrocket through the roof, his jealousy already burning holes in his stomach lining.

When Gavin’s green eyes turn to him again (expectantly?), Michael’s anger flares. “You’re fucking late,” he snaps, shoving his headphones on his head. “You missed some shit.”

Which is lie number two for Michael today, but Gavin doesn’t need to know that.

Gavin doesn’t seem too bothered by it in any case. He just shrugs and cracks a wobbly grin (wobbly?), flopping into his chair with Meg. They laugh as they try to squish into the seat together and Michael pulls a face, averting his gaze once he sees Gavin turn red at Meg whispering something into his ear, her lips brushing against his cheek.

 _Shit, he must really like her. I’ve never seen Gavin that embarrassed with anyone…else,_ Michael thinks. _‘Not together’ my ass, Gav._ Funnily enough though, the thought is almost comforting. Because it means Gavin wasn’t weirded out by Michael’s sudden friendliness. That he has things important to him. And is probably doing well.

With that in mind, Michael sighs, rolls his eyes at himself, and forces himself to face the duo. After all, he’ll probably need to deal with them a lot more from now on. It’s a miracle it only just happened now, actually. He looks down at his jeans miserably.

“A miracle what only just happened?”

Meg’s curious voice pulls him out of his thoughts. Michael jerks his head up, startled.

“Uh – what?” He shakes his head, muttering, “n-nothing. I was just talking to myself. You must be G–”

“Meg Turney, yep! That’s me.”

Michael stares. _Gavin’s girlfriend,_ he was going to say. But he realizes the words are bitter on his tongue anyways so he shakes it off and just continues along as if Meg didn’t mishear. He manages something that sounds at least a little akin to a “nice to meet you.”

“It’s nice to meet you too! We haven’t talked at all up until now, so this is long overdue, but I work over at The Know and…”

Michael nods absentmindedly, shaking his right leg up and down again. As they make small talk for a little while over what Meg does, how Michael got hired (glossed over that one, thankfully), and other small tidbits of little value – to Michael, at least – Michael can’t help but think about how much Meg’s beaming smile reminds him of Gavin’s.

The pair of them are _close_. As _fuck._ And they’re practically a perfect match, Michael notes. Both bubbly. And energetic. And cheerful. The thing is, Michael can just _tell_ that Meg Turney is genuine about the way she goes about, well, everything – in a way that Gavin isn’t. Not necessarily.

_And maybe that’s why they work so well together. Gavin needs someone like her. Someone the opposite of me._

Another burst of jealousy rises in Michael’s throat as Gavin pats Meg on the head and she leans into his bony shoulder. Without thinking, Michael rises, both hands on his desk.

“Well,” he says shortly, “see you around. I’m – I’m gonna go talk to Ryan about…next week’s schedule.”

Finishing his sentence with a lame excuse, Michael spins on his heel and, not waiting for a response, quickly rounds the multitude of tables to plonk down in the empty chair next to Ryan, effectively shielding himself from Gavin and Meg’s eyes with the monitors between them.

Michael tries to ignore Ryan’s probing look for as long as possible but after a couple heartbeats, he finds himself whipping around to snap, “what, Ryan?” as if they aren’t at _Ryan’s_ desk and Michael didn’t just abruptly sit himself down in _Jack’s_ chair, almost spilling Ryan’s mug of black coffee. But Ryan only raises a single eyebrow in response and Michael sighs, dragging a hand across his own forehead before all but slamming his face down on the desk. He buries his head in his arms as Meg’s laughter carries over from the other side of the room. The sound thuds against his insides like a wooden bat against any number of soft things.

“Just say whatever it is you want to fucking say, dipshit,” Michael muffles out, hating how the day has turned out.

But Ryan doesn’t say anything Michael expects him to. Instead, he clicks his mouse a couple times and begins talking about recording plans in that low tenor of his, his free hand finding Michael’s shoulder and tapping it lightly.

Curious, Michael raises his head questioningly and what stares back at him from Ryan’s computer screen is a Word document pulled up with the words _why are you doing this to yourself?_ typed up in 20 pt font.

Michael freezes and whips his head around to make sure nobody else is around to see, much less Meg or – god forbid – Gavin. But the office has been fairly devoid of staff today, Ray being god-knows-where and Jack working with Caiti on something, Geoff out in another room and Jeremy with Matt, so Ryan and Michael are in the clear.

With Gavin and Meg’s light chatter floating through the room, Michael furiously types back at Ryan directly underneath his initial sentence.

_doing **what?**_

Ryan scoffs and brushes Michael’s hands away from the keyboard.

_This. The whole affair. Being here. Pretending._

_Pretending._ Right. Michael doesn’t even really know why he’s doing all of this, but that stale excuse of seeing his friends really doesn’t cut it, does it? After all, he doesn’t need a common workplace to reconnect with everyone. Technically.

_because I still fucking like Gavin, what’s it to you?_

Ryan doesn’t even bat an eye at the declaration.

_I’m just saying this out of concern for Ray, you know. He’s worried about you. And rightly so._

Michael stiffens and reaches for the keys but Ryan shakes his head as he continues typing.

 _But I’m concerned too. I’d like to think we’re friends too, and you can’t do this forever, Michael._ Ryan takes his hands off the desk and gives Michael a pointed look before motioning with his eyes to Gavin, who’s currently squealing over some weird new game Meg’s showing him on his desktop.

Tearing his eyes away from the British man, Michael makes to reply but is too caught off-guard by what Ryan just said to actually do so. He puts his hands in his lap and thinks about it for a second.

Ryan and himself…friends? It’s weird, because he never really thought about it. Ryan has always been an extension of Ray. A package deal of sorts. They’re more like acquaintances, really.

But even with Ryan’s wolfish grin and mischievous look (and all the shit Ray tells Michael despite Michael concretely telling him _multiple_ times over that he does not want to fucking _know_ ), there’s a glimmer of something in the older man’s eyes that speaks care, pleasantly surprising Michael.

And maybe pity, which doesn’t surprise him as much. He frowns.

“I’m just saying that you need to choose to either do something or walk away,” Ryan says lowly, deleting the block of text from his computer just as Geoff walks through the door. “This dance you’re doing around everything isn’t going to last.”

Yeah, definitely pity.

Bristling at the connotations of Ryan’s words despite knowing he probably just means well, Michael brings a palm down on the table and makes the miscellaneous things on Ryan’s desk rattle. Gavin looks over in alarm.

“Michael? What’s the ma–”

“Shut it, Free,” Michael snaps, acutely aware of how the man’s _still_ motherfucking sitting in that goddamn chair with Meg Turney practically in his lap. Who, speaking of which, strangely doesn’t say anything at all and just observes with sharp, glinting eyes.

“Free?” Ryan whispers, repeating Michael. “Look, if you want to be with him again why don’t you just _talk_ to him, or get Geoff to at least tell him the situation? You’re both almost there again. I mean, you’re already calling him what you used to…and Gavin will understand. It can’t get any worse than it alrea–”

“ _Ryan._ ”

Evidently, that was _not_ the correct choice of words to use.

When Michael faces Ryan again his eyes are blazing dangerously and he looks like he’s more than ready to clock Ryan in the jaw and take him the fuck out, yet he exerts an extraordinary amount of control to lean in until he’s less than a foot from Ryan’s features.

Shaking almost imperceptibly, Michael hisses, “well, maybe I’m just a fucking piece of shit and I think I deserve to have this crash around me again, alright? Maybe I’m expecting it. After all, I was alone before. I can be alone again. So I don’t need your misplaced sympathy, asshole.”

Ryan looks flabbergasted and opens his mouth to respond, but Gavin beats him to it.

“A-are you sure you’re alright? Sounds like you’re having a row or something.” Nervous chuckle. “Michael, I’m wo–”

 _Mi-cool._ “I don’t care,” Michael yells impulsively over his shoulder, feeling slightly sick nearly immediately after the words roll off his tongue. Over Ryan squeakily leaning back in his chair, expression of _well, I tried_ on his face, Michael swears he hears a sharp hiss as Gavin sucks in a breath.

 _Shit. I’m sorry,_ Michael shouts internally. _I do care. I care a lot._

But he can’t bring himself to say that because in the end, the words won’t jostle free from where they’re nestled in his lungs. _‘Cause I’m a fucking coward._ So after a brief second of hesitation, Michael stalks out of the room silently, passing Geoff without a single greeting. A set of concerned, emerald green eyes burns into his back as he goes.

Moments later, something crashes and tinkles in the hall and Meg’s eyes grow to the size of saucers. “Oh jeez,” she mouths at nobody in particular, eyes flickering back and forth between the source of the crashing sound beyond the office walls and Gavin’s confused expression, her purple hair flying.

The office falls into complete silence.

That is, until Geoff, still gaping at the open door Michael retreated through, demands to know, “what the fucking dicks just happened?”

“I may or may not have fucked up,” Ryan says nonchalantly, arms folded across his chest as he lies smoothly. “We were divvying up stuff and I guess it got heated.”

“You _guess?_ ” Geoff gawks, setting down his beer. “Seriously –”

Acutely aware of Gavin’s unconvinced expression peeking over from across the room, Ryan insists, “I’ll talk to you later about it, boss.” His tone is final.

If anything, Gavin’s curiosity only amplifies at that and he makes to get up, head already brimming with questions. Geoff notices and quickly places his hand on the back of Ryan’s chair, dipping down to ear level.

 “You fucking bet we’re going to talk about this later. What did you even say to him?”

Ryan shrugs loosely but his eyes are tight. “The wrong thing, apparently.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (^:


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [finger guns]  
> p. II of my apology for Not Existing for a while, eyy
> 
> note: also unbeta'd (i lov u kri, do what u do)

Gavin has not an ounce of a clue of what happened. In fact, he was just thinking about how he and Michael were doing rather well. What did Ryan even _say?_

“What the heck was that all about?” Meg whispers, mouth still open in a small ‘o’.

“Hell if I know,” Gavin whispers back. His eyes are glued to Ryan, who’s uncharacteristically shifting about every so often at his desk, looking a little uncomfortable at life. “I went over to ask but Geoff seemed really unimpressed so I didn’t press.”

“So much for ‘not angry,’” Meg says, earning a light punch in the arm from Gavin. But her eyes say that she’s joking so Gavin lets it go, too preoccupied with Michael’s abrupt behaviour to keep anything else in mind for long.

He had even ventured out into the hall on the pretense of going to the washroom to maybe take a peek at where Michael went off to, but the brunet didn’t seem to be on company grounds anymore. Still incredulous and taken aback by Michael’s low outburst, Gavin wonders to himself if the man had actually gone home because of his row with Ryan.

Which would make what they talked about _really_ important, wouldn’t it?

Meg eventually gets called away to record a few sets and Gavin’s left alone to brood.

 

Michael knows he overreacted. Wishes he could be as good as Gavin at internalizing everything (which is, come to think of it, not something one should aspire towards; repression, that is). Regrets his outburst a little.

And by little he means a _fuckton._

But pride is a strange thing and so after a quick, glancing chat with Burnie, Michael takes the fuck off and drives on autopilot to Ray and Ryan’s, knowing that’s where he’ll find his best friend. His foot is perhaps a little too heavy on the gas but he doesn’t give a shit. He also knows he was more than a little too harsh with Ryan, but then again, he can’t bring himself to care enough to turn back.

A red light prompts him to stomp on the brakes, jerking himself forward in his seat. He groans and taps his fingers against the steering wheel impatiently.

 _This is dumb. This is so fucking dumb,_ he reflects, knowing that his anger at Ryan is laughably misdirected; it’s less because of the older man’s lack of tact and rather more due to how dead-on his accusations were. _Emotions are so fucking dumb._

_‘Why don’t you just talk to him?’ Because I’m a piece of shit, that’s why._

The light turns green. He hits the gas and tears off.

 

Meanwhile, in blissful ignorance, Ray’s happily picking off targets in _Black Ops_ and eating a couple cookies that he and Ryan had made the day prior.

(Correction: that _Ryan_ made after Ray’s failed miserably and Ryan had almost gotten sick trying to eat them)

In any case. The point is, Ray’s having a grand old time. He and Ryan stayed in yesterday together and did all sorts of gross couple things that he would love to talk to Michael about like any other amped up teenager going through puberty and raging with hormones – even though he is _definitely_ not a teenager anymore and thank _god_ he’s done with puberty because that was shit – except Michael hasn’t texted him back in days.

Ray glances guiltily at the phone on the couch beside him. Maybe he should’ve gone to work today. Who _knows_ what the Michael-Gavin situation is like now, after they had drinks together. _Could they have bonded?_ Ray wonders, but immediately retracts that thought just as he accidentally blows a teammate’s head clean off with a shotgun.

“Oop, sorry dude,” he mutters absentmindedly, now imagining a war-ravaged zone with the office divided into tables, chairs and monitors along opposite walls, Michael on one end, Gavin on the other.

 _Yeah, that’s way more likely,_ he decides. _With my dead body in the middle of the carpet. So maybe it’s a good thing I didn’t come to work – I can always just ask Ryan how it’s going._

And if he had asked just then, Ryan would have been able to tell him that it was just going fine and dandy, or as fine and dandy a goddamn trainwreck could be. Though he didn’t, so it’s a complete surprise to him when the landline suddenly rings.

Ray stops and stares for just a second before decidedly ignoring the sound in favour of continuing his _Black Ops_ match. After all, Ry’s still at work. And nobody else would have any reason to come here, save for a salesperson or someone who hit the wrong number. Idiot.

But a few seconds after the ringing finally stops, it starts up again. If possible, louder. Ray whips his head over to glare at the landline accusingly.

“Stop,” he says sternly, as if the telephone is sentient. “Stop fucking ringing. Nobody’s here.”

Of course, with his luck the sound goes on and on and _on_ and Ray eventually groans and gets up from his comfortable spot on the sofa to snatch the receiver up from the counter. He viciously jabs the green _Call_ button, wishing it was still his controller.

“What? Who is this?” He mutters irritably, watching his character getting fucking slaughtered on the TV screen. _And there goes my ammo. And my score. And my reputation._ But the reply over the phone, crackling with a smattering of faint static, captures his attention entirely.

“You little _bitch,_ ” an exasperated and slightly watery voice shouts. “fucking let me _in_ already. How hard is it to pick up the damn phone? And if you hang up on me, I swear to fucking god I’ll climb through your window and fight you.”

_Oh shit, it’s Michael. In the lobby._

“Shouldn’t you be at work?” Ray shouts back, not entirely sure why he’s yelling. Michael can hear him well enough, he’s sure.

“Shouldn’t _you?_ ” Fair point.

“Yes! I mean – no – I’m taking the day –”

“Then just let me _in,_ I have something to tell you –” Hoo boy. About Gavin, no doubt. But Ray can’t help but roll his eyes and think about his phone and his hundreds of texts asking Michael what was going on, so –

“Couldn’t you just text me back?” Ray says halfheartedly, realizing it sounds awful while they’re shouting back and forth at each other through the speaker. “I mean, why _didn’t_ you t–”

“ _No!_ Goddamn it Ray, someone’s fucking staring at me from inside. I think they’re going to call security.”

Ray almost snickers because he’s been there in that exact situation on more than one occasion, but he immediately sobers up at Michael all but growling at him about how if he gets arrested, Ray will be posting bail. And will, inevitably, get his ass kicked when Michael gets out of jail for trying to see his _best friend_.

“Okay, okay, okay. Hold on. Just –” Ray shuts his mouth as he realizes something, staring at the keypad on the phone. Slight panic rises up inside him.

“…”

“…”

“Ray, you still there? Aaany day now.”

Ray swallows and tentatively puts the phone to his ear again, cradling it as he admits, “uh, Michael, listen, I don’t know the fucking code to let you in, dude.”

In the lobby, Michael stares at the speaker in the wall as Ray’s voice comes through. He stares. And stares. And stares.

“What the fuck?” He shouts incredulously, throwing his hands in the air as his voice skips through several octaves. Forget security, the old lady on the other side of the glass looks ready to burst through and motherfucking pepper spray him herself. Speaking of, would it be so hard to just let a guy _in?_ “What do you _mean_ you don’t know the code? Isn’t it just a number? How hard can that be –”

“Listen, there’s a lot of numbers, okay –” But Ray must’ve pressed a random number anyways, because the speaker emitted a loud, harsh _beep_ that did _not_ sound good. He admits, “…I don’t think that worked.”

“You don’t fucking say?” Michael groans at the ceiling, well aware the old lady is inching closer to the door, sturdy-looking cane in hand. “Ray, god, I can’t believe you don’t know the code to your own apartment. I’m going to fucking kill you –”

“Can’t kill me if you can’t get in.”

“–if I don’t die first down here.”

Ray sighs in resignation, brushing cookie crumbs off his shirt and waving goodbye to his peaceful day. “Okay, okay. Just wait, I’ll come down and get you.”

 

“Mother _fucker_!”

Amidst the sound of video game gunfire, faint chuckles and some indiscriminate cursing, Michael dies for the seventh time in half an hour. Rolling his eyes, he flops backwards on the couch and chucks his controller onto the coffee table where it skitters across several loose pages of marked paper before coming to a rest precariously close to the edge.

Ray makes a small noise of alarm at the movement but doesn’t move to retrieve it, instead setting down his controller as well. The gunfire on-screen continues and both their characters are shot dead in seconds but he ignores it, casually turning to look at Michael as he falls back onto the couch cushions as well.

He draws his leg up on the couch. Pushes his glasses up a little.

“So,” Ray starts with a certain intensity, but doesn’t seem to have given any more thought to what comes after.

_So much for intensity and intent._

He lets out a quiet laugh as he watches Michael practically rolls his eyes into the back of his head.

“Uh, soo……………………………..”

“You’re so fucking dumb,” Michael interrupts, with a small, dimpled grin forming on his face at Ray’s poor attempt at confrontation.

He had, of course, been acutely aware of the Puerto Rican hazarding glances his way across the foot or two of couch fabric separating them every couple minutes while in-game, not to mention their light banter-filled elevator ride up after running away from an elderly resident named Dorothy and the goddamn _superintendent._

Michael hopes Ryan is on better terms with management than Ray is.

Ray’s protest pulls him back, “Dude, rude –”

Michael opens his eyes to the ceiling.

Confrontation probably isn’t the word for it. After all, he invited his own ass into his best friend’s (are they still best friends?) home and they spent the last half hour playing video games, skirting around the reason why he’s here to begin with.

 _Too harsh of a word, confrontation,_ Michael decides. _Too much animosity._

He suddenly sits upright, startling Ray.

“I slept over at Gavin’s the other night. In the same bed,” Michael says, staccato, as if he said it any more gently it would mean more than it already does. “I’m also jealous as _fuck_ over Meg – what the fuck are they, anyways? And we’re friends now? I think. Gavin and I, not Meg. And I think I’m letting myself falling in love with Gavin again.”

He stares at Ray’s bewildered expression. Ray stares right back.

“Excuse me, _wh_ –”

“Not really in that order,” Michael interjects quickly.

Ray has the palms of his hands pressed against his forehead in disbelief by the time he’s finished processing Michael’s quickfire, incomplete explanation. Some form of relief curls in his gut but the knee-jerk reaction is still there.

“You _slept_ together?” He asks, voice pitched. “What _else_ did you do for him, Michael? Wait, on second thought, I don’t want to know. Hoo boy, I can’t believe – I bet you didn’t actually properly _talk_ to him, either.“ He drags his palms over his face and just lets his glasses slide off and onto the couch.

Michael has the decency to look somewhat sheepish when Ray looks up again, or maybe it’s the blurriness of his vision tricking him into thinking so. In any case, he mutters something sounding a lot like “ _you’re_ one to talk.”

“Hey, hey.” Ray frowns, holding up a hand. “Listen, Ry and I talk. Sometimes. More than you two dipshits, at least.”

He turns the TV and console off absentmindedly and in the absence of the Xbox whirring, his voice sounds all the clearer when he turns back to face Michael.

“So what are you going to do about it now, dude?” Ray’s tone is more than a little offset by the comedic look he gives Michael as he squints in his general direction, somewhere over his shoulder despite being less than a couple feet away from one another.

The corners of Michael’s mouth twitch upwards again as Ray fumbles to put his glasses back on.

“Why do you think I came here? Ray, I have no fucking clue what I’m doing,” he admits, carding a hand through his brown curls.

He considers telling Ray about cooking and cleaning for Gavin. But by the looks of it, Ray is flabbergasted enough as is from what he’s told him, so he decides to let the poor Puerto Rican stay put in blissful ignorance. But he can’t help his freckled face colouring brilliantly at the image of Gavin at the bathroom sink, Michael’s hands in his hair.

“Dunno why I thought I could keep things under wraps.”

Ray snorts at that, rocking forward. “Bro, you _really_ came to the wrong person then, for advice at least. I’m the fucking king of confrontation avoidance,” he declares as he gets up. “But I mean, I don’t think it’s a bad thing if you guys…get together again. He obviously really liked you before, he can find the same reasons to love you again?”

Ray finishes with a muttered “dude, god, that was so gay, sorry,” under his breath that makes Michael laugh.

“All of this is gay,” Michael points out, worry lines smoothing out for a moment before creasing back into existence. “Though, we’re different people now, Ray. And what if he doesn’t…”

Ray pauses from grabbing a bag of chips from the pantry in time to see Michael grimace.

“What if he doesn’t like me this time around?” Barely above a whisper.

 _God, you should see the way you two fucking look at each other,_ Ray wants to say, but he’s not here to meddle. Just offer support to his best friend, yeah? They need to figure each other out for themselves, Ray decides. Instead, “I don’t know why the hell he _wouldn’t_ like you, dude. You’re a real gem. No homo.”

That draws another laugh from Michael and Ray turns back to the pantry, satisfied. The bag of chips crinkles loudly as he pulls it from the shelf and he misses some fragments of conversation but Michael looks much less miserable and conflicted when Ray surfaces from his chip hunt.

“Although…” Ray leans on the kitchen island counter thoughtfully. “He should probably know about three years ago. In my opinion, at least. Everyone’ s walking on eggshells and it’s bound to come out eventually, don’t you think?”

“But that’s…” Michael protests halfheartedly, but he knows Ray has a point. He winces nevertheless.

“You don’t even have to tell him. Get Geoff to. He’s like a dad to Gavin, it makes sense,” Ray adds, mistaking Michael’s discomfort, but he trails off when Michael starts slowly shaking his head, sheepish expression worming its way back onto the brunet’s face again.

“Well, about that,” Michael mumbles, Ray staring at him with a groan halfway up his throat again as if to say, _what else? What more can there be? (How can you fuck things up worse than I do?)_

“There’s maybe _one_ little thing I forgot to mention to you and…well, uh, everyone? Apart from Geoff.” Michael winces again.

“I _maybe_ made Geoff promise me that he would never try to fucking tell Gavin what was going on between me and him and any of that from university or I would quit my job and he would never hear from me again? Or hint at it. Or anything.”

Ray’s eyebrows shoot up but his reaction falls flat to Michael.

“Wow, extreme,” he remarks, making Michael’s face redden again.

“I was really fucking heated, alright?” Michael snaps back but without bite.

“Evidently.”

Unbeknowst to the two, at this same point in time Geoff gets reamed out by Ryan in his own office after confessing to the same promise – “how _irresponsible –_ self-serving – what is it you even want for Michael and Gavin –” – but if they knew, Ray wouldn’t have been surprised while Michael would have been.

In any case, Ray is less perturbed by this new fact than Michael would have expected.

(Then again, Ray can pull some surprising shit once in a while. Like second year. Like the hospital. And like now.)

“Dude, it’s simple then, isn’t it?” Ray’s voice cuts through his thoughts. He nestles his chin comfortably in his folded arms atop the counter. His gaze is unusually serious; unusually certain. Michael wonders at what point he transitioned to this from “so…………” – It’s the type of certainty that lacks Ray’s regular nerves but none of his underlying demeanor. Yet – intense. Convincing.

“You need to tell Gavin yourself.”

Then,

“Oh, speaking of.” Suddenly upright and less serious, Ray motions for Michael to follow him into the narrow hallway. He tells his best friend, “I have some things to give you – give back to you, I guess.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my raychael ass is weeping but i would still lov feedback,
> 
> HXL


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IM FFUCKFNKGN ALIVE IT 'S A MIRAC L E
> 
> The Dovetail series is a year old as of August 2016 !! What a cool thing. Thanks for still reading!

Michael didn’t go home until very late into the night.

Gavin knows this because Ryan had already sat in Geoff’s office for  _ eons  _ talking during work hours, but he ended up going over for dinner at the Ramsey’s with Gavin anyways – without Ray. And that would never happen unless Ray was still sick from being hungover – which Gavin decides is incredibly unlikely even given how much of a lightweight Ray was – or if Michael was over at their flat.

Something settles uncomfortably in Gavin’s throat at the thought of an upset Michael running straight to Ray, and staying there. But lurking behind that was an unshakable feeling that there was something going on that Gavin was missing. After all, when did they get so  _ close? _

“This is not jealousy talking,” Gavin mutters to himself, unconvinced. 

After all, has Michael gone over to  _ Ray’s  _ house, slept with - not slept  _ with,  _ Gavin corrects - slept in the same bed with him, and made breakfast for the guy? Has Michael spent an entire night out with Ray, ever? Has he shown Ray that look of his, desperate, hollow, and hurting? Spilled secrets he regrets? 

Probably not.

_ So why does it feel like Michael’s so much closer to Ray?  _

Gavin swallows and turns over in bed. Closes his eyes.

It nags at him, chews away at his sleep. And even though he had such good intentions, meaning to sleep earlier today, the clock keeps ticking and Gavin eventually finds himself staring at his bedroom ceiling at three in the morning, wide awake. 

“Damn it!” Gavin sits up, scrubbing his face with the palms of his hands. “Shouldn’t bother me this much.”

But it does. In reality, Gavin can think of a thousand different reasons why Michael would choose Ray over himself, but these are the kind of thoughts you repress and deny. Like -  _ look Gavin, maybe it’s because you’re fundamentally a shitty human being.  _ Like,  _ you’re a goddamn alcoholic, really, and Michael probably thinks you’re pathetic.  _ Like,  _ Ray practically wears his heart on his sleeve and you don’t even know where yours is. _

Even then, thinking about Michael’s bared fury and hurt and shakiness, reflecting on the way Ray would abruptly grab Michael by the wrist and drag him out of the room or shoot him a concerned glance, remembering how Michael tore out of the office, Gavin was still selfishly thinking,  _ it should be me it should be me it should be me. _

Sinking back down on the mattress, Gavin sighs miserably. He considers calling Turney, but hates the idea of bothering her so often. Instead, he shoots out an impulsive text and drops his phone on the floor.

Michael’s “I don’t  _ care _ ” suddenly pops in his head. 

“Shit,” Gavin whispers, wincing.  

He stares at the ceiling in the dark until the sun rises.

 

Michael wakes up with a snort halfway across town, feeling a familiar buzz under his pillow.

“What the fuck - who,” Grouchily, he fumbles for his phone, squinting at the too-bright screen. “It’s like the dead of night. I’m going to fucking kill whoever woke me up...” He trails off.

**[3:55:21 AM] Gavin Free:** sdfsfdfsdfsf hey boi hope you’re ok! Got me worried when you left. See you tomorrow! Or today, I guess. Haha

_ Gavin.  _

Michael groans guiltily, throwing a hand over his face and remembering everything he said in his fit of anger. 

“Fuuuuuuuuuck. I was such a dick to Gav,” he blurts out. “Shit, and he’s still so - I can’t believe him.”

Frowning as he tries to imagine Gavin right now, in his small apartment alone in the dead of night, he squeezes his eyes shut. Ray’s words swim to the forefront of his mind and puts a pang in his chest.  

“Plus,” Michael realizes, “He isn’t sleeping again.”

Ironically, Michael spends the rest of his own night tossing and turning and not getting much sleep at all. 

So come morning, Michael and Gavin actually arrive at work at approximately the same time. Surprisingly, Ray is already inside having friendly early morning conversation with Geoff. Ryan is quietly sitting nearby. But the amused quips at Ray’s abysmal alcohol tolerance die down as soon as everyone turns and actually notes how haggard-looking and moody both Michael and Gavin are. 

“Woah, you uh, neither of you look too hot. Everything okay there buddy?” are the first words out of Geoff’s mouth as soon as he sets eyes on the two, but all it earns him is an eyeroll from Ryan, a shrug from Michael, and absolutely shit-all from Gavin.

“You kidding me? They look better than me on my best day,” Ray offers, staring at Michael, who just shrugs vaguely.

“Your best is pretty awful, then,” Gavin mutters, with a slight smile.

“Damn right it is.”

Unsurprisingly, the day was not a very productive one. With a multitude of videos backlogged and the atmosphere still decidedly terse, nobody really felt the motivation to get up and say, “hey, we should get around to doing x thing now! How ‘bout it guys?” So what’s left over is a stiff blanket of silence with people streaming in and out of the room, all focused on working on their own tasks. Only Michael and Gavin are left awkwardly sitting next to each other for a good bit of the afternoon, dragging files around and editing tracks in a seemingly aimless fashion.

Gavin is just thinking about how it feels oddly similar to when Michael first got hired when he’s startled by a tentative tap on his shoulder. 

“Hey, uh, Gavin.”

In response, Gavin all but flings himself into the air, body tense like a string. 

“Hm! Yes, hi Michael, I didn’t see you there - I mean I did, but I wasn’t paying attention.”

Michael’s eyes widen, lips upturned.

“Fucking - you sound like Ray, christ.” Michael snickers softly, leaning back in his chair. “I just said hi, Gav. You know, like two coworkers in an office would say. Civilly. Jesus.”

“Right, like coworkers,” Gavin repeats, exhaling. He rubs his eyes. “Sorry, I’m pretty tired, boi. You know, those late nights! Gotta get to bed earlier than this! My attention is pretty rough right now.”

And just like that, the tightness in the air was supposed to be dispelled, but his his light joking tone gets lost somewhere in Michael’s muttered, “yeah, I know, believe me,” and for a second Gavin forgets all about yesterday’s events; forgets about Ray and Michael. Because in that instant, he swears Michael sees right through him. Really _ sees _ him. And it scares him half to death.

He gets up.

“A-anyways, I should go see if Geoff needs anything,” Gavin stammers, carding a hand through his hair. “Otherwise I might just head home.”

“Gavin?” Michael knits his brows, obviously in the middle of saying something.  

“Seriously, I need to -” Gavin grabs his phone off the desk, brushing aside some crumbs and other miscellaneous things, and turns to leave, but Michael suddenly stands too. 

“Dude. Gavin. Are you okay? Seriously.”

Heat blooms in Gavin’s chest. “Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”

“Maybe because I was just trying to thank you for that text in the middle of the fucking night, but you look like you’re about to pass out on the spot? Listen, I’m sorry about what I said the other day. I obviously fucking care. So what the fuck is up with you?” Michael demands, stepping forward. 

Gavin takes a step back, mouth opening and closing but no words coming out.

“You know you can, like, come talk to me about shit, right? I know you got Geoff and Meg but...thought I’d offer. After all, you know, weird shit.” Michael shrugs, voice soft now, and all of a sudden, Gavin wants nothing more than to hit him.

“You’re one to bloody talk, Michael!” Gavin explodes.. He slams his phone back on the desk, the sound reverberating. “What’s all this about when I don’t even know a thing about what’s been going on with you - you’re the one acting all  _ weird. _ I thought we were getting closer and then you just - you storm off to Ray! It’s always you and Ray and Ryan and all these secrets and the whole group is in shambles -”

Michael gulps with an air of  _ wait, I didn’t ask for this _ , bringing his hands in front of him and hastily motioning for Gavin to tone it down, but Gavin’s having none of it. 

“- like you should’ve  _ seen  _ Geoff and Ryan at supper, it was absolutely tragic, and of  _ course  _ nobody ever tells me anything - I nearly feel like Ray except even Ray probably knows more than I do right now, doesn’t he?”

“I -” 

“ _ Doesn’t he? _ ”

Michael frowns. “Gav, I was just trying to apologize -”

“And I just want to know what’s going on!” Gavin shouts, voice cracking at the worst moment. He stops for breath as heat slowly starts creeping up his neck as he realizes he was just yelling at the top of his lungs at work, where at least a dozen people probably heard him through the walls. 

Michael blinks. Swallows. Clenches his fists at his sides. Inhales.

To be honest, Gavin half-expects Michael to drop kick him to the moon right then and there, tell him  _ stop being so fucking dramatic,  _ or maybe even snap and tell him it’s none of his fucking business what’s going on in his personal life and to leave it alone. 

But instead, just as the door opens, Michael clamps a hand down on Gavin’s thin wrist and shoves past Jack and Jeremy into the hallway. He doesn’t stop there, to Gavin’s surprise, but keep walking, pulling Gavin along with him.

“I’m heading out with Gav an hour early,” Michael hollers to nobody in particular, still drawing plenty of attention from confused onlookers as he steers towards the exit. 

“Michael - where are we -”

“Shut up.”

Michael throws the front door open and throws both of them out into the autumn air as Gavin’s hit with a wave of deja vu: the sky is dark and neon tinged - a traffic light nearby turns red - Michael’s furious,  _ furious _ \- but then Gavin blinks and it’s gone. In its place, a midday parking lot and a very nervous-looking Michael Jones. Gavin blinks a couple more times for good measure, but nothing.

“Gavin? Hey, you in there?”

Gavin refocuses to Michael being right up in his face and he staggers back. “Y-yeah, I’m here boi. Now what?”

Michael exhales and sinks down to the pavement, shaking ever so slightly.

“I - fuck, you’re right - I have something I r-really need to tell you.” 

 

Back in the office storage closet, Ray is nearly suffocating to death. Call it a small price to pay for eavesdropping. 

“They’re literally so fucking dramatic,” he mutters. “I can’t believe they dragged my good name into this and then had to take it outside. Just make up and make out already. They’re so gay for each other it hurts.”

He takes a deep breath, still glad in any case that Michael actually went for it. But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s still close to fucking  _ suffocating  _ for his efforts. Something to do with the tiny, claustrophobic space, limited oxygen and all that. 

“I mean, how long do two guys need to fight before they talk it out?” Ray says aloud.

But maybe Ray’s shortness of breath also has something to do with Ryan’s hand on his leg and stuff. Maybe. Just a little. 

Ryan laughs quietly, pushing his hair out of his face as he shifts slightly, shoulders bumping up against the shelves in the dark. 

“Yeah?” He teases, leaning in. “Think you’re really one to talk, babe? As I recall, you texted me and told me to, I quote, ‘ _ don’t come home until midnight or something ‘cause I hate you and also I’m really worried about Michael. _ ’ Also, please remember that time when you didn’t come home for weeks because you were scared I was mad at -”

Ray flushes and twists against Ryan’s chest, stumbling backwards a little against something on the floor.

“Dude, shut up. I was just w- whatever. I was just sorta pissed ‘cause Michael told me you goaded him on or something, how was I supposed to know what you actually said?” Ray very nearly pouts, not that Ryan can see that. “And don’t bring that up, that was  _ ages  _ ago. Also nobody said you had to come in here with me at all -”

“No,” Ryan agrees with a smirk as he pulls Ray back in and kisses him on the lips, cutting him off. ”You’re right, I didn’t have to.”

Rolling his eyes, Ray puts his arms around his boyfriend’s neck lazily.

They both freeze as they hear Jeremy and Jack’s voices nearby, remembering there’s other people in the room. But then a door shuts and it’s quiet again.  

“Geoff’s going to have a fit when he comes back and sees everyone abandoned work, you know.” Ray whispers to Ryan. “ Not to mention that people probably think we’re fucking in here. Then your boy’s gonna be unemployed. How would you feel about that?”

Ryan hums, still grinning as he gently lowers his head again. “I’d be alright with that.”

Ray smiles against Ryan’s mouth. Everything's going fine for once.

“Jerk,” he says anyways. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im gonna go take a year long nap now bye guys
> 
> HXL


	13. Chapter 13

It’s funny, because for all the times Michael wanted to be alone with Gavin, wanted to talk to him – no, desperately  _ needed  _ to talk to him, to the point of the words tumbling from his mouth of their own accord – it seems like an awful idea now that the opportunity has arisen.

Gavin is impatiently waiting, Michael can tell. He’s doing that thing where he bounces ever so slightly and catches himself before he gets too off-balance. Huffs to himself when he thinks nobody is paying attention.

But yeah, Michael can tell.

He clears his throat.

“I haven’t been entirely honest with you.” It comes out hoarse anyways, of-fucking-course it does, and he almost takes himself out right then and there. Instead, he shoves his hands in his pockets, stands up again, and turns away. Motions to Gavin. After a few seconds, Michael hears Gavin hesitantly fall into step beside him.

_ Well, here goes nothing. _

“I  _ know _ you, Gav– Gavin.” Resolutely making eye contact with the sidewalk, Michael fiddles with the hem of his shirt. Takes a breath. “Wait, that sounds dumb, of course I know you right now. What I mean is, I’ve known a lot about you before coming to work here. I recognized you? Yeah. Among other things.”

_ Jesus, is this even coming out right? _ He thinks. A grin almost forms.  _ Michael, how long have you had to think about what to fucking say? Coulda rehearsed.Too late now. _

He talks like a beer bottle knocked over. Bubbling dangerously; fizzing at the edges; spilling, spilling, spilling.

“The truth is, I was gentle with you the night we went out and got bevved because I know what you’re like. The depression. The drinking. Drugs and whatever, I don’t even know if you’re doing that anymore, I don’t know  _ anything _ about what you’re doing now to be honest – a-and I didn’t want to mention it when I first got hired because, well, I guess we can talk about it later – but the point is, I  _ knew  _ you.”

Past-tense. Heavy with connotations that Michael has spent so long repressing.

All of this makes Gavin come to a forceful halt in the middle of the street they were halfway done crossing.

“I knew you,” Michael repeats, finally meeting Gavin’s clear, wide eyes, the British man’s fists clenched like he’s ready for a fight. The air between them is bowstring-tense; a spark; a hum of something. “I  _ knew _ you, Gav.” More clearly this time. 

Gavin inhales, words not coming out quite right –  _ whatdoyoumeanyouknewme  _ – and the moment breaks with the deafening sound of someone laying into their car horn very,  _ very  _ generously.

“Get the fuck out of the road!”

“Fuck off, we’re in the middle of something here,” Michael hollers back reflexively, and it almost puts a smile on Gavin’s face. Almost. They take their sweet time reaching the curb, Michael making a show of flipping the car off the whole way there, and they hear the driver curse again behind them before finally making the turn.

“Idiot.” A mutter from Michael softens the air, and Gavin does  smile this time, however faintly.

“Huh. Me, or him?”

“Both.”

As they lapse into silence, Michael halfway hopes that Gavin leaves it at that, conversation over.  But guilt sears through him at the thought of Ray (of all fucking people) hearing that he almost got it out and went chickenshit at the last second. Secondly, he personally feels like he’s hanging off a precipice, the words floating midair like a menace. He’s scared shitless, really, but there’s also a hint of exhilaration and anticipation.

He quits thinking about it and plows on as if there was no interruption, ignoring the near-painful churn of his stomach.

“I knew you. And you don’t – you don’t remember. That’s okay, really, it is, but I can’t handle keeping this shit under wraps anymore. It would come out anyways, with that fucking group of saps-“ A twitch of his lips. 

In the back of his head, he registers that they have somehow wandered close to Gavin’s home.

“–And I don’t expect you to really f-forgive me –“ Michael’s tongue trips over the word, the traitor, “- but I hoped we could work something out. I want to stay friends, yeah? I don’t want things to be weird between us. Are things weird between us? Wait, you really just wanted to know what was going on – but this  _ is  _ what’s going on…I mean, you can ask Geoff about shit if that’s better, I’m fucking terrible at explaining anything, fuck,  _ fuck _ , look at me running my goddamn mouth now…but…….hey, Gavin?”

Michael realizes Gavin didn’t exactly follow the latter half of his winding monologue. Or most of it, if at all.

He was hardly following Michael in any sense of the word.

Instead, he’s sitting on a concrete step ten feet behind, hands on his knees for support. 

Michael cautiously backtracks, feeling foolish as he comes to a stop standing near the railing waiting for Gavin to collect himself. 

“Sorry, I, uh. Talked a little too fast there,” he says softly, in what he hopes is a reassuring tone. “I – take your time, yeah.”

Gavin raises his head sharply, seeming surprised, as if he didn’t expect Michael to be there. He breathes in deeply, looking like he’s about to faint; something between a whimper and a choke comes out of its own volition.  

_ What the fuck do I say? What the fuck do I  _ do _?  _ Michael’s thoughts spin as he crouches next to Gavin, who’s imperceptibly shaking. He should have accounted for this.  _ God, we should have talked about this somewhere private. Uh – _

“Look, we can go home. I got ahead of myself. Sorry. Your place is literally a few steps away, we can talk there instead if that’s more comfortable -”

“No, no.” Gavin says suddenly. He sweeps his hair out of his face carelessly, if not a tad roughly. “It’s okay, sorry, got a little lightheaded there. Just a smidge. You were saying?“

He looks at Michael expectantly, recovering so quickly that it has Michael completely taken aback. 

“I-” Michael stutters. “I was saying that we went to university together.”

Which is completely untrue in the sense that he had mentioned no such thing - and wasn’t planning on mentioning it until they were somewhere more private - but completely true in every other regard. So Michael leaves it, feeling strangely uneasy. 

“At UT,” He clarifies unnecessarily. “We were in the same ph-physics course. I was friends with Ray, too. With, well, a lot of people in the office, actually. You...you sure you’re good, boi?”

Unnerved at Gavin’s silence, Michael begins talking in a rushed voice again. He ticks off his fingers one by one, skin so electric he feels like it might tremble right off. “I guess..yeah...anyways l-like, I knew Ray - he was my roommate, he really didn’t like you at the start, I think - and Geoff and Griffon sort of, plus there’s also Barbara and Jack…you went to a lot of parties back then and there was also this one time on the pier...” 

Michael turns bright red. 

“Ne-never mind that,” he blurts. “There was a lot of stuff going on with you back then, yeah? I...know a lot of it. You just don’t remember.”

Gavin just stares and stares and stares.

Michael stares back, desperately willing Gavin to just say  _ something. _ But all there is are city sounds; the murmur of trees, daily traffic speeding by, the distant chatter of a cafe half a block down. And Michael’s heart pounding in his ears, loud enough that he nearly misses Gavin’s twitch and slow, trembling inhale: 

“Oh,” Gavin finally says.

Then he throws up in a shrub.

An involuntary noise comes from the back of Michael’s throat. It tastes like confusion, and perhaps a shred of fear. His heart is in his throat now, and it’s hard to swallow. 

“...Gavin?”

After wiping his mouth in distaste, Gavin straightens. Can’t quite meet Michael’s eye. Doesn’t reply.

He simply announces, “I can’t do this. I need to go home,” and leaves in the direction of his apartment with an astoundingly steady gait, very nearly dropping his keys in the process. His hair flops wildly as he recovers, which would be funny in almost any other circumstance. He then turns the corner and is gone.

Michael is too shocked to do anything remotely like...anything. He stands without thinking and lets go of a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. 

“Well, that’s not how I expected it to go. That’s...really not what I thought what would happen at all.”

He had expected anger; perhaps shouting, or even a blow or two. Incredulousness. Disbelief. Perhaps even, dare he think it, relief and some inkling of happiness. 

But that’s all out with the trash now. 

“I tried. I explained,” Michael says aloud, ignoring the people staring. The people who, most likely, saw the entire scene - Altercation? Fight? He doesn’t even know what the fuck that was, to be honest - and It doesn’t make him feel better. Not that he expected it to.

He numbly walks home, ignoring the yelling and hard knocking emanating from upstairs as he arrives to a flyer wedged under his door. It makes him more pissed off than usual; he viciously tugs at it with a sense of helpless frustration that he didn’t even know was there. He ends up with a ripped pebble-sized corner in his hand while the paper stubbornly sticks, all flashy colours and exclamation points, and it’s too much for Michael.

Ripping the door open, he doesn’t even bother taking off his shoes as he throws himself straight into bed. He buries his head in the pillow. Tries to will in some optimism. And perhaps the motivation to at least fucking shut his front door.

_ Maybe he just needs a moment to think, that’s all.   _

_ It’s a lot to take in. It’s a lot for  _ anyone,  _ much less Gavin. It could’ve triggered his amnesia and shit. I sure as fuck don’t know how any of this works. _

_Or,_ a far less welcome idea occurs, _he just fucking hates you now that he knows._ _I mean, dude, he fucking puked after you told him._

Michael growls, squeezing his pillow in a death vise. “No, it’s not like that,” he says. “It’s not.” 

_ He felt  _ sick _ because of what you said. Literally sick. _

This time, when Michael brings his head back down on the pillow, he shakes. He shakes so hard he feels like he might shake right apart, and there’s no one to keep him wedged together. His phone buzzes in pocket and he just  _ knows _ it’s Ray asking how it went - the answer is horrible, sorry I fucking failed ya - but fuck that. Fuck that. Fuck  _ everything. _

He screams himself hoarse, the muffled sound drowned out by the din in the crappy apartment complex, even with his door wide open, and when he finally exhausts himself completely from crying, he falls asleep and dreams of nothing.

 

Gavin pops four painkillers - two too many - before he dares to attempt functioning again.

He had barely made it through the door; after shakily trying to insert the key into the keyhole and failing miserably, multiple times, he all but collapsed on the floor, waves of nausea (or something else entirely) still overwhelming him.

_ Christ _ , was his head killing him.

Now: he sits on the kitchen floor, absentmindedly nursing half a glass of water as he determinedly ignores the dull panging in the back of his head. While decidedly not a healthy pursuit in respect to keeping his head from exploding, Gavin  _ needs  _ to wrap his head around what the bloody  _ hell _ Michael Jones was talking about.

Michael was already acquaintances with Ray, Jack...Geoff? (At least that one made a bit of sense.)

But - they were in school together? All of them?

And, most preposterous of all, Michael claimed to  _ know _ him. Gavin Free.

“What a load of bull,” Gavin mutters, spilling his water ever so slightly. “What an absolute, damn load of  _ rubbish. _ ”

_ What the hell does Michael Jones know about me? _

Of course, the answer was in the back of Gavin’s mind already, nagging away. After all, the man did spell it out - everything that Gavin despises admitting about himself, all his flaws and misdeeds past and present: mental illness. His...promiscuity. General reckless behaviour.

Gavin winces at the memory, and a pain somewhere behind his eyes compounds that.

He swallows another painkiller dry.

The only possibilities he can think of are either, he met Michael at UT and, like countless others (he admits, not exactly the best show of personality), he simply dismissed the brunet, or, god forbid, he  _ slept  _ with him drunk, or high, or a combination of both. And forgot it all.

Gavin’s face turns hot as he gauges the likelihood that such a situation had happened. The conclusion was, inevitably, very,  _ very _ high.

He scrambles up and snatches his phone off the counter. Tapping out a phone number at the speed of light, he all but slams the speaker against his ear. 

“Whats up dude? I, uh. Something wrong?”

“Do Michael Jones and I have history?” Gavin demands, not bothering with the pleasantries. 

“W-what do you m-”

“Did we  _ bloody shag? _ ” Nearly at a shout, Gavin forces his voice down three notches. “It’s a simple question, Ray. Listen, just. I know you and Michael are old friends. Just spill it, you’ve known all along.”

Ray sputters over the line. “I, I mean, I don’t know what you two have, uh, done -”

“So we did -” Gavin squeezes his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We did mess around in the past, yeah.”

“I mean, I. No kissing and telling, haha.” Ray pops his lips; Gavin can imagine him forming a small o, glasses already slipping off his face. “Wait, wait. Gavin, holy shit, has Michael talked to you about th-”

Gavin hangs up.

Sliding back down onto the tiled floor, his stomach somersaults, in a not-good way. 

“Fuck,” he whispers to himself. “What did I tell him? What did I say to Michael when I was messed up? I- how much does he knows? Does that even matter? He knows. He  _ kn-” _

Gavin claps a hand over his mouth and fights the welling panic in his chest. 

_ I have to work with him and he knows god knows how much about me. I’m an awful person. I’m bloody aw- he’s just walking around with all this knowledge about me and he can tell anyone, I’m ruined I’m ruined I’m-” _

He feels like he’s being sucked into rushing water. The thoughts start blurring as they get louder, crashing over his head as he struggles to breathe. 

_ I didn’t want  _ this _. _

All Gavin wanted was to get closer to Michael, maybe fall a little in love, mess around, no harm done.

_ No harm done. _

Gavin chokes on his own laughter, hiccuping from the lack of breath as he realizes he’s clenching his teeth so hard they feel on the verge of shattering. He realizes he really, really can’t go into work tomorrow and face Michael, or anyone else. To be fair, he recognized that in some part, he deserved this. After all, it’s his own shit personality, his facade, his issues that were the root of all of this.

Everyone was just dancing around it because they didn’t want to get in the way.

Gavin finally breathes again, ears ringing ever so slightly. A heavy, heavy weight settles on his chest and he gingerly lowers his hand from his face. Flexes his fingers. They crack. 

He had been pressing hard enough to bruise.

“This is fine,” Gavin murmurs to himself unconvincingly as he drags himself over to lean against the coffee table. He leans back, looks up at the darkening ceiling. “I’ll just apologize to Michael, is all. For reacting so dumbly. And making a big deal of all of this. After all, it was just a one-night stand or something. I probably made a damn fool of myself.”

Somehow, the words prick as they roll off his tongue. His chest rattles like a deteriorating engine.

Maybe it’s the painkillers he took, or the three coffees he had during the day. Or the fact that he’s in goddamn love with Michael Jones and he  _ slept  _ with the man when he was in university, eager, naive, fucked up and belligerent as he was, and his chances with Michael are all but toast now.

As his eyes slowly slide shut, still sprawled out on the living room floor, Gavin’s head pounds and the blood in his ears echo,  _ I just want you to be happy.  _ Emotionally and physically exhausted, Gavin barely registers it. But it’s still there.

_ I just want you to be happy. _

_ A-and I love you. _

 

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I return from my slumber,,,,,  
> so uh, the funny thing is that last time I was like wow!! happy Dovetail anniversary! and you never heard from me again. remember that
> 
> If you're reading this, _thank_ you for putting up with me and as always, thanks for reading !
> 
> HXL


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please do not count on updates coming this fast ever again  
> i don't even believe in myself so neither should u tbh

Gavin wakes up in a cold sweat, sheets lying crumpled at the foot of the bed and the whisper of a raspy laugh in his ear at least thrice that night. The entire thing feels like a goddamn nightmare. He chalks it up to the pain medication; the gut-wrenching anxiety floods him even still, as well as a whole host of other problems he would rather not put a name to.

In the end, he sleeps for a grand total of three-point-five hours and spends the rest of the early morning aimlessly scrolling through his phone and watching the morning light slowly creep into his room.

He flips through his emails; responds to tweets; declines calls; makes a journal post; texts Geoff. Curling up in an especially warm spot under a sunbeam, Gavin contently stays in bed until eleven, when he finally falls asleep again.

This time, he dreams of a sunrise and quiet talking on a dock. The figure beside him is hazy at best, but comfortingly familiar – there’s something about the setting that he can’t quite put a finger on. Like a dream that has been reoccurring all through your life but seems fresh every time you experience it.

“Who are you?” Gavin asks. He leans in, but the features blur impossibly more until he finds himself talking to an amorphous, buzzing collection of _something_ resembling a human that, slowly, smiles at him wistfully.

(How does a tangle of thoughts smile, exactly?)

(And how does he know it’s something _wistful_?)

Nevertheless, Gavin finds himself smiling back, unable to help from crying a little bit. Not out of fear or even simple confusion at the situation, but rather due to the acute panging in his heart and the words lodged in his throat begging to come out, already sounding true on the tip of his tongue –

He wakes again just as the sun abruptly swooped down and devoured him and the other man whole.

(Was it a man?)

Heart beating erratically and frightfully loud, Gavin shoots upright in bed.

“Damn it!” He cries, shoving his pillow away. “What the bloody hell was that?”

Carding his fingers through his hair as he swings his legs off the bed, he fretfully tries to tug back the last threads of the dream. There was a pier. He sat together with someone. So many things were said, but he had no idea what. He did know, however, that he loved him.

Whoever he was.

 _If_ he was real.

“Why do you have to make up such useless things, brain?” Gavin gets dressed slowly, morosely, as he remembers the events that transpired the day before and how, in _real_ life, he could not be any further from any shot of intimacy.

An unpleasant memory suddenly comes to mind of fucking a stranger in a bathroom stall at the seedy dive bar downtown, Gavin, high out of his mind and having lost his wallet the fifth time that week –  and it sticks.

“Shit,” Gavin mutters.

_Michael probably knows about that too, huh. He probably knows everything._

And it’s _different_ from Geoff knowing, or Barbara, or even Ray, who he grudgingly admits is astoundingly loyal – it’s different because it’s _Michael_. Gavin can’t exact the words to describe it, but just the very thought of _Michael Jones_ plus _unfortunate crush_ plus _everything disgusting Gavin has ever done and every lie he’s told and every persona he’s faked_ plus _full time work in close proximity for the foreseeable future_ equals…well. It equals Gavin hiding out in his room like a goddamn pussy instead of going to work like an adult who deals with his issues rather than running from them.

He cringes as he recollects how he first greeted Michael at the office, chirpy and bouncy and at least ten decibels too loud. How he tried toying with Michael, getting upset and flirting with him to fill the void, and oh the _horror,_ deciding on the fantastic idea of _trying to get Michael to love him._

Gavin snorts and falls back onto his bed, limbs sprawled out.

“Geoff knew and he set me up because he knew I had it coming. That bastard.”

He flops an arm over his eyes. All he sees are curls and freckles.

_Now look who’s the one in love, you bloody fool._

 

Of course, Gavin couldn’t be any more off the mark. But then again, neither could Michael.

As for everyone else, well, they spent the better half of the morning in the office openly discussing what the outcome of yesterday’s abrupt, stormy exit of the duo was, with their noticeable absence today only fueling the conversation. Everyone, that is, apart from Ray. The Puerto Rican, resolutely having decided that he wants absolutely no part in this, had exiled himself to the furthest corner of the room as soon as it began, resigning himself to sighing dejectedly at regular intervals.

Ironically, it started with Ray himself, whispering to Ryan just a tad too loudly, “how bad did I fuck up when I accidentally admitted that he’s slept with Michael before, really?”

“I say they’re at Michael’s, banging right now,” Geoff immediately said, overshadowing Ryan’s far quieter, “real bad, babe.”

Ray’s hands flew to his forehead.

“ _Geoff,_ ” he said, eyes wide. “I did _not_ see you behind that desk, dude.”

Geoff shrugged and a smile spread on his face, slow as molasses. “Well, here I am, buddy. What did you say again? Missed the start of all that. Are Michael and Gavin finally talking it out? Forced the hand, didn’t ya?”

Ray firmly set down his controller. “Listen, I did _not_ mean for you to hear that, oh my god. I’m not even sure if they talked, or anything, for sure…” He trailed off at the glimmer in Geoff’s eyes, because yeah sure, the old fart’s tone was joking, but his face was a fucking open book of soft, glowing happiness.

Neither Ray nor Ryan mentioned it.

Instead, “if anything, they’re probably at Gavin’s,” Ryan had offered, receiving a chastising punch from Ray for doing so. “It’s closer.”

As Geoff crossed his arms and nodded approvingly, Jack’s head popped through the doorway.

“Did I hear Gavin? And Michael? Are they together right now?”

Then, Barbara: “Michael and Gavin? _What?_ ”

“What the hell are you even _doing_ here, Barb?”

With a shriek from Ray that shot through at least twelve octaves and deep-throated laughter from Ryan, that’s how the conversation really began.

The funny thing is, what began as wild speculation and joking eventually wound its way down to hushed voices mixed with equal parts happiness and apprehension; somehow the topic turns to nostalgia (not all of it good), and Jeremy (who joined them at one point or another) pipes up about this one specific time that they – they being himself, Gavin, and Barbara, among others – went drinking in senior year.

“It was so fucking hilarious, remember that time when –“

“When Matt accidentally swallowed the mint in his drink and we thought he would die from eating something fresh, _god_ yes,” Barbara finishes, laughing. But as she brushes her hair back from her face, she suddenly sobers up. “But that was the same day we…”

Ray pokes his head up from over the bean bag.

“Same day as what?” he shouts, to which he received a unanimous “ _stay in your corner, Ray”_ back.

As he grumbles and sinks back down, Barbara bites her lip and looks to Jeremy, who shrugs.

“Ah, yeah. We saw Michael at the bar. He was wasted – kept telling the chick next to him about how much he fucking loved Gavin, missed him, hated his life, etcetera. Oh, but he didn’t mention him by name, ‘course.”

“Thing is,” Barbara lowers her voice, looking uncomfortable. Like this was something she shouldn’t be disclosing, like a terrible secret. Just like the secret they’re keeping from Gavin, she supposes. “Thing is, Gavin _saw_ Michael. And – get this – he nearly recognized him.”

Geoff, dramatic as ever, slaps a hand over his mouth.

“ _No,_ ” he manages, high pitched. “What the dicks? How come you never told me? Holy shit! Holy shit! I would’ve, w-would’ve uh, talked to Michael sooner, maybe, set something up earlier, or like, tried harder to call -”

Ryan, who has kept quiet up until now, gives him a pointed look that brings his short but forceful tirade to a halt. “Maybe because everyone knew you would react like this.”

Geoff slowly lowers his hand from midair and advances on Ryan, gesturing accusingly.

“Now wait a second…did you know too?”

Ryan shrugs, to the outrage of Geoff. And Ray.

“What the _fuck,_ Ry?”

Indignant as anything, Ray nearly knocks over Geoff as he barrels over to smack Ryan on the back. He resists the urge to forcibly pull Ryan aside to make him explain how the hell _he_ knew about this and _Ray_ didn’t. Not that he could ever actually _make_ Ryan Haywood go anywhere he doesn’t want to – physically, anyways.

Unhelpfully, Ryan shrugs again, and all but smirks in amusement. “You think you’re the only ones on campus who gossiped? Shit, anyone who knew Gavin knew about the accident. I’m just surprised that none of them said a thing to Gavin himself about it.”

Suddenly, Geoff flatly interjects, “They did. He had to go to medical at least four times in the first three months he went back to school because some fucking idiots went up to him and asked him where his goddamn red-haired _boyfriend_ had gone and if he died in the car crash. The cocksuckers.”

That wipes the smile off Ryan’s face.

“Shit, sorry,” Barbara says, hushed. “We didn’t know – didn’t hear anything about that –“

“Bah, no, no, I’m just being pissy because I’m fuckin’ worried.” Geoff waves his hand roughly, trying to look composed and failing miserably. “He had so many panic attacks after getting triggered, I lost count after a while. At least most people had the decency not to prod any further.”

Jack grins faintly at that, knowing full well that most humans definitely do _not_ have that sort of decency to respect privacy, especially in the face of tragedy. And oh, a tragedy as big as Gavin Free, player and student extraordinaire, almost dying? That, paired with the obvious separation of Gavin and Michael in the aftermath…well. That’s too good of a story to pass up for something as worthless as _decency._

No, it had taken dozens of hours of malicious hacking into the school system, complete with threatening emails, ominous notices, as well as other, more peaceful, _legal_ means such as exchanges with the Dean and other parties, to arrange that the incident would never be mentioned again by outside parties.

Not that any of the kids knew this.

Geoff huffs at the knowing expression on Jack’s face and turns to leave.

“Anyways, you all have shit to do,” he snaps, without much of a bite. “We wasted a fuckton of time just yammering and I have a meeting, fuck me. See you dicks later. And for the love of god, someone _tell_ me when Michael or Gavin get in today, alright?”

Geoff’s phone rings at least six times that afternoon and receives well over three dozen texts, but not a single one had to do with the two absent men who, Geoff suspects crestfallenly, did not fare as well as he had hoped yesterday. He calls Gavin twice at the end of the day and listens to it ring over and over again before finally going through to voicemail. He calls Michael only once and it only rings once.

Geoff frowns and scratches his beard, rueing the day that he and Griffon decided to keep their hands out of this goddamn business and let it play out naturally.

 _Naturally,_ Geoff scoffs. _Yeah right, you bastard. What the dicks did you think would happen? Neither of them have the balls to actually talk to each other, you knew that._ He suddenly feels overwhelmingly guilty for the part he’s played in all of this. _We all goddamn knew at least that much, shit._

 

 -

 

**_Two years ago_ **

“Hey my man, you’ve probably had enough for tonight.”

“Bullshit. Give me another.”

Gavin frowned from his spot, a few people down from the conversation. He ignored Barbara’s laugh and jab at his ribs to lean in, curious at the voice. Peering over, he saw unruly brown hair and a splash of freckles on pale skin. Hands clenched around a glass of amber. Something inside him stirred.

The man lifted the glass to his lips and shifted in his seat, making his profile more pronounced under the dim spotlights lining the bar counter.

 _He looks sad,_  Gavin thought, unsure why he suddenly cared so much about the look of that stranger. After all, a bar is full of them. Strangers. But this particular person…see, Gavin’s good at remembering people. He’s especially good at remembering faces. But for some reason, he couldn’t put a finger on why the guy sitting at the end of the counter alone looked and sounded so goddamn  _familiar._

“Do I know him?” The words were out of his mouth even before he could process it.

His friends turned to him and Barbara laughed again, saying something about how Gavin  _finally_ wanted to join in on the conversation.

Gavin hummed and tapped his fingers against his beer impatiently. He tilted his head in the stranger’s direction and repeats, “c’mon guys, I’m just wondering. Do I know that guy?”

A pause.

“How am I supposed to know who you know?” Barbara said, half a pitch higher than normal. “But I mean, I don’t think you know him. I sure don’t.”

“That’s odd,” Gavin murmured. He took a sip of his beer and shrugged. “Guess I’m just imagining things.”

“You have had a good couple of beers,” Matt pointed out, to which Barbara nodded fervently. Gavin agreed a bit more slowly.

He had to be. After all, the stranger didn’t seem like one for any type of conversation whatsoever; a person would occasionally go up to him and he would immediately turn them away, at first with a smile, then as the night wore on good-natured replies turned into scowls and rude hand gestures that made Gavin’s eyes widen and also made him snicker a bit.

But then someone got the man talking. Like,  _really_  talking. Gavin guessed he’s pretty drunk at this point – he himself was, in any case – because suddenly the stranger was spilling all his secrets to the girl sitting with him, his cracking voice travelled to where Gavin was sitting with his friends, and it’s not like Gavin’s been really, really invested in watching the man for the past hour or anything, but he noticed the way the man’s eyebrows drew together tellingly and the grimace that formed his mouth as he talked. The way he almost broke his glass.

Gavin was  _fascinated._ How could anyone have such strong feelings for anything at all?

“Someone has a bit of a crush,” Jeremy whispered, putting his arm over Gavin’s shoulder as he noticed where Gavin’s intent look ended. Gavin threw it off, pouting.

“I do not! I’m just…curious, alright?”

“Gavin’s curious about everything,” Barbara pointed out, rolling her eyes. “How do you think he got so many friends? Not to mention his fucking unholy grades, what a natural talent…”

“Aw, bugger off, Barbs.”

Gavin tuned her out as she started ranting about his perfect GPA and lack of drive. Loudly and exuberantly, as Barbara would. Grinning, Gavin turned back to check up on the stranger at the end of the counter again but he banged his knee against the wood as he spun around, suddenly drawing an immediate shout of pain from his mouth.

Amidst sympathetic noises from Gavin’s friends and light chuckles from others around him, the stranger turned at the sound. Green eyes met brown. And the stranger froze like he was just shot.

“Oh,” he mouthed. “ _Shit._ ”

Gavin swore he saw drowning in those dark brown eyes but he was also quick to call bullshit on himself – there’s no way he could’ve told that from a fleeting look across a crowded, dark room. But  _something_  set the guy off, alright, for less than a second later he slapped some bills down on the counter, shrugged on his jacket and flew off the bar stool like his life depended on it. He ripped by Gavin without a single look.

The soft ringing of the bell on the exit door was swallowed up by background noise. Eventually, the bartender took away his glass, still half full.

But Gavin couldn’t stop thinking about the man for the rest of the night, despite getting progressively drunker and drunker (or perhaps because of it) – Matt brushed back his hair one time and Gavin thought about the way the stranger’s hair looked auburn in the light and how that somehow seemed important; Barbara cracked a joke and all that echoed in his head was a wheezing laugh that belonged to nobody and the stranger’s clear but slurring voice telling anyone who would listen about how, once upon a time, there was someone he used to love and how it all went to shit.

Jeremy suddenly nudged Gavin out of his thoughts.

“Hey, you good?” he asked.

“Y-yeah,” Gavin slowly refocused, plastering a smile on his face. “Just distracted.”

“By who, Michael?” Jeremy regretted the words as soon as they came out of his mouth. It’s probably amplified by the way Barbara and Matt simultaneously deliver vicious kicks to his knee from under the counter, but Gavin didn’t really care.

“You  _do_ know him!” He accused, already whipping out his phone to check the name. “Last name?”

Jeremy rubbed his knee and sighed, “I only  _sort_   _of_ know him. Know  _of_  him, more like, okay? And Jones. Michael Jones.”

“Michael Jones,” Gavin repeated, typing in the words with some degree of difficulty. But he wasn’t on Gavin’s contact list  _or_ friend list on Facebook. In fact, they had no mutual friends  _at all._ Which just isn’t possible. Internet searches came up with nothing, too; Michael Jones was quite simply just too common a name. He made a noise in frustration. “Damn it!”

“Gavin, hey, just let it go,” Barbara patted him on the shoulder. “It isn’t that big of a deal.”

“I– it just feels like I’m missing something important.” He lowered his phone reluctantly.

But in the end, he did wind up letting it go. For as proud as Gavin is for his memory and ability to remember people, this particular event – and that particular name – fell from his mind over the years, as though it had never happened.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (^: ! if you've been following my tumblr perhaps the last segment seems just a tad familiar to you.....haha. I couldn't resist fitting it into the main fic, my apologies if you've already read it before!
> 
> thanks to kri for betaing my last chapter (lobe u) and chloe (lobe u 2) for this one,,,and you for reading ! until next time c:
> 
> HXL


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i live 
> 
> (in which few people have common sense and michael is drunk. again.)

At one point or another – or rather, after Gavin finally shows up to work his smug, perky usual self, mentioning absolutely fuck-all about the still-absent Michael – the office slowly and collectively comes to the realization that it’s damn near impossible to track down Michael if he does not want to be reached.

“Do any of us even know where the asshole lives?” Geoff interrupts mid-recording one afternoon, headphones dangling around his neck as usual, looking especially irked to have been dragged into his tenth consecutive GTA V video that day. “’Cause fuck, I. I need my goddamn _employee_ back.”

Nobody points out that it was Geoff himself who inexplicably caught wind of Michael’s home number and that he himself would be the most appropriate person to ask. Not that many people _hear_ Geoff at all – before Geoff could finish the question, Gavin starts slurping soda from a straw obnoxiously loudly and hardly anyone hears over him plus the in-game chatter.

Ray, however, does. He gives silent indication through a roll of his eyes, promptly shooting Gavin’s character between the eyes, and blowing up every single one of the rest of his teammates in the immediate area without a single word.

Amid Gavin’s protests and other, quieter but equally shocked cries, Ryan just sighs and gets up, stretches.

He goes, “Well. That’s a wrap.”

“What?” Geoff asks.

Ryan smiles, faintly amused. Says, “It’ll take years to set that up again so I guess I’ll squeeze in some marking in the meantime; I’ll go get Matt,” and leaves.

Geoff stands, groaning as he turns on the perpetrator. “ _Ray._ What the fuck did you do that for, what the _fuck_ did you…”

“I’m not saying you brought this into the workplace, but uh, yeah. You did.”

Somehow, Ray manage to not make himself look like the most childish fucker in the room with that statement paired with what he just did. The irritation that flashes across his face is markedly serious. And pretty fed up. Which for the matter, Geoff thinks, should be _his_ expression right now, not Ray’s.

Crossing his arms in defense, Geoff shoots back, “Bring what? What? I’m just, just trying to keep things going, like I said, work-related crap.”

“How about you end this stupid dance around before I just quit?” Ray snaps. He jerks his headphones off so violently Geoff cringes. “Jesus, this could have all been fixed if you all got locked up in a room together and was forced to talk things through-”

Geoff, baffled, stutters, “that wouldn’t –“, juxtaposed with Gavin snickering, about a related matter or something different, neither of them knew.

“-would be better than this,” Ray continues to rant over him. “I’m going to…go buy a juice box from the vending machine holy shit I’m so mad I’m so sick of this–“ Pausing at the door, Ray loosens up slightly. “Just…send someone to Michael’s already.”

He whips around suddenly, a threatening finger already up. “But _don’t_ try to put me in the middle of this again, alright?”

Gavin just laughs again and sets his empty fountain drink down.

Ray looks at him questioningly.

“You just have shite luck, Ray.” Leaning back in his chair comfortably, Gavin adds, “So what if he doesn’t show? I mean, we’re doing just fine.”

The questioning look morphs into one of incredulousness. “We are most certainly _not_ doing ‘just fine’!”

“Definitely…not,” Geoff mutters in agreement, shoving his hands in his pockets sheepishly. “Anyways, whatever, whatever. Sorry, get back to work, all that jazz. Go get your goddamn Capri-sun, Ray. I’ll do something about it.”

As Geoff walks off to his desk to attempt to place a call to a certain brunet, Ray swears he sees the beginnings of panic lacing Gavin’s expression. But then the Brit scoffs, and it’s gone.

Ray snorts and turns his back again.

 

In the end, Jeremy doesn’t know how the ever living hell he got roped into playing the mediator. He stares at the door to Michael’s apartment,, arms rigid at his side, amid a din of noises coming from the surrounding suites.

“He’s just being petulant,” Geoff had said. “I know he doesn’t want to come in, but he’s gotta at least say something before quitting, yeah? Just- you know, get him to uh, come back here with you.”

_Right. That easy._

Jeremy knocks on the door – loudly.

“H..Hey!” He calls out nervously, looks around furtively as someone stumbles into the hallway from the stairwell with a noise that sounds suspiciously like any number of liquor bottles clinking against each other. Probably in the man’s ragged backpack. Jeremy raises his voice slightly. “I – Michael, it’s me, open up. I just want to talk –“

 _Please,_ Jeremy thinks, eyeing the stranger, who decisively sits down a couple feet away and pops a bottle of whiskey.

What must’ve been less than a minute later – but felt like at least sixty – Jeremy decides, _fuck it_ (the man had just also pulled out a spoon and lighter without much ado) _,_ and tries the door.

It sticks for a second, makes a tacky sound that puts a slight grimace on Jeremy's face, and opens.

Now, Jeremy feels more like he’s about to enter in on a crime scene rather than the living space of a co-worker and former student peer to ask him (politely) to stop shirking his responsibilities and return to work. He realizes with a sinking feeling and a small welling up of anxiety that Geoff sent him here on a couple erroneous assumptions. That either Geoff or even Gavin himself should’ve come instead.

Assumption number one: Michael just doesn’t want to come in and face Gavin for whatever reason and all it will take is a little convincing.

Assumption number two: Michael is of generally good health and therefore that doesn’t warrant worry.

Assumption number three: Michael is just fine.

Michael looks like a lot of things, but not any of those particular things. For one, he looks drunk as anything, sprawled out on his couch with a near-empty glass of amber on the coffee table and a clear bottle underneath it. He barely notices Jeremy stepping in, but when he does, he practically rolls onto the floor in a flurry.

His glasses are nowhere in sight.

Squinting, Michael crawls back up on the couch, furiously flushed. “I- hey, how d’you get in?”

Jeremy swallows. “Uh, you forgot to lock it, buddy.”

After realizing Michael isn’t about to grace him with a reply, he asks, “How are you doing?”

Michael just winces at the question, expecting it. He waves a hand in midair. “Listen, listen. You’ve caught, uh, me at a bad time, yeah. Just a. Bad time. I swear to God I’m gonna come into work t’morrow, boi. This is just, forget it, shit forget it –” Rambling voice trailing off, he makes a noise of derision at himself.

Rolls over.

A baby cries in the background.

“Michael?” Jeremy ventures, to little success.

He is equally confused and concerned as he cautiously approaches, shutting the door gently behind him and cutting out a good slice of the noise. The first clean-ish looking glass he could find, he grabs and fills with tap water. Then, he searches for the right words to say. Obviously, Geoff’s opening line of “hey, we need you back at the office buddy” just isn’t going to cut it.

He opts for an eloquent “You’re drunk as fuck, Michael.”

Jeremy touches the man gently on the back to soften the accusation, causing him to immediately stiffen. At the touch or the words, Jeremy didn’t know. “Here. Drink some water.”

Michael violently shrugs Jeremy’s hand off without even turning to look at him. The water in Jeremy’s other hand splashes onto the couch and into Michael’s hair, but he doesn’t seem to give half a shit; he doesn’t move an inch as he mutters, “Shut up, what’d you care.”

Jeremy, now offended, lowers his hand and dries his arm off with his shirt.

He blurts, “Excuse me?” Baffled.

“I said _why do you even fucking care?_ ” Michael’s voice is louder this time, albeit still muffled by the couch cushion his face is buried in. “Don’t come waltzing in here acting like, uh, things are fucking fine ‘n dandy.”

Then softer, “You motherfucker. You goddamn cocksucker.”

Michael lapses into silence.

Jeremy is just thinking about how he doesn’t deserve this verbal abuse when suddenly, Michael whips around again, stumbling his way into Jeremy’s chest and Jeremy automatically catches him. Michael looks like he feels like dying.

“I love you,” Michael slurs, eyes barely open, to Jeremy’s more than mild surprise. “Thanks for comin’. Really.”

_What a mood swing._

“You're...welcome?” He responds with uncertainty. "It's not that big of a deal, I like you enou-"

“No,” Michael all but snarls, gripping the front of Jeremy’s shirt. Jeremy lets out a tiny _eep_ at the outburst _._

Michael emphasizes, choking, “ _No,_ I _love_ you, I goddamn love you to pieces, fuck I just want you t–“ and then he’s abruptly almost nose to nose with Jeremy and he blanches so deeply it almost completely erases the alcohol-induced blush from his cheeks.

Hand loosening, Michael falls back on his ass.

"Shit."

“Ah, I see,” Jeremy finally realizes, putting the pieces together.

He puts a fist to his mouth. Eyes widening, he says, “ _Oh._ Michael, I’m so fucking sorry.” Again, at a loss for words. “I’m not- you think- it’s- Geoff told me t-”

 _God, I’m not making_ any _sense._

Jeremy wisely elects to shut up instead of continuing to spout gibberish.

In the wake of Jeremy’s awful attempt at an explanation, Michael purses his lips like he’s about to throw up. He averts his eyes from Jeremy and stares at the ceiling with fierce embarrassment, alcohol still coursing through his veins as he explains for himself.

“You’re not Gavin,” Michael states plainly.

“No,” Jeremy agrees, relieved. He sits on the coffee table. “I’m not. It’s okay.”

After a pause, Michael adds, “I’m sorry.”

Jeremy just nods.

He wants to make it easy, wants to lie, say something like _hey, Gavin’s been asking about you_ , but that would simply be untrue. Michael deserves better. Gavin deserves better. But then again, this whole affair deserves to be _over_. Silently agreeing with Ray’s sentiments, Jeremy leans forward and takes a breath.

“I have a question though,” Jeremy starts, causing Michael to turn his bleary gaze on him, finally. Jeremy hesitates. “What happened between you?” There was no need to specify who the _you_ addressed.

Michael shrugs, reaches for the half-spilled glass of water. “What d’you wanna know? I tried to tell Gavin I knew who he was before AH but he looked disgusted and then left. That’s it. Whatever.”

Alarmed, Jeremy leans forward. “ _Disgusted?_ ”

“I mean,” Michael laughs harshly, “He fucking emptied his stomach on me. What else is there to say?”

Jeremy frowns. Michael knows full well that there’s plenty else to say, but the man is still inebriated and looks hellishly tired so he leaves it. Instead, he silently takes Michael’s glass and replaces it with a full one. He resists the urge to just slap an entire loaf of bread in front of the man. Or maybe drive him to a hospital so someone could take care of him properly. Physically _and_ mentally.

Michael smiles wryly. “You’re thinkin’ about how much of a fucking mess I am, aren’t you?”

“A little,” Jeremy admits. “But it’s cool; you’ve been through some crap.”

“Sure, sure.”

Jeremy pats Michael on the knee and firmly says, “yeah, you have.”

Michael gulps, smile disappearing from his face. He nods almost imperceptibly.

In the next moment, tears well up in Michael’s eyes and Jeremy finds himself letting Michael cry out onto his shoulder, slurring through a curtain of tears about how he didn’t want it to be like this and how he should’ve never tried again.

Jeremy rubs Michael’s back comfortingly through the entire thing, Michael eventually being completely overcome and saying “I’m sorry” over and over and over again, directed to Jeremy, or Gavin, or both.

“He hates me,” Michael finally says, semi-coherently.

Jeremy wants to disagree, but he has no evidence to provide to the contrary. So he reasons that Gavin may have misunderstood. That he didn’t have the whole picture, was reacting to a sliver of the whole truth. And in that sense, Jeremy becomes the closest of anyone to understand.

The possibility puts a glimmer of hope in Michael’s eyes.

By the end of the day, Michael agrees to Jeremy’s suggestion of giving Gavin a little space and taking the weekend to recover – “you mean get my shit together,” Michael pointed out – before sitting Gavin down at lunch or something to explain _all_ of it to him on Monday.

They’re remarkably more relaxed in each other’s company compared to when Jeremy first arrived, and Michael finds himself feeling incredibly grateful for Jeremy Dooley for the second time since starting to work with him. He echoes this to Jeremy himself, whose ears turn red.

Jeremy stutters acceptance, immediately segwaying back into firm Gavin territory.

“Anyways, try not opening with the fact that you know all his deepest secrets and that you would die for him like you did just now,” Jeremy advises, to protests of “I didn’t say I would die for you”, “I know fuck-all about you, Lil’ J”, and “Shut the fuck _up_ , get _out_ ”.  

“Try opening with ‘Gavin, you have amnesia’.”

Jeremy smirks and gets up to rummage for food in the kitchen.

Michael, still huffing indignantly, would flip him off for stating the obvious, but the playful accusation is painfully dead-on. Case in point, what did Michael do when Jeremy (Gavin in drunk-Michael eyes) first came in? He confessed his undying love to him. Almost immediately. Michael goes over his conversation with Gavin in his head and cringes.

“’I _know_ you’, what the fuck. Why did I fucking say that,” Michael groans to himself, realizing how he must have sounded. “It sounds like I was threatening him, what the fuck?”

“Don’t know,” Jeremy calls, emerging with an apple and a pathetic-looking sandwich, the corners of his mouth tragically pulled down. “Do you have anything more edible in this place? Gavin later. Empty stomach, now.”

Michael shakes his head with a laugh as he reaches for the phone to call for a pizza. Or two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that sweet Executive Dysfunction am i rite!!!!!! anyways missed u guys and this story, i've been busy with another project that I am restricted from mentioning on AO3 but some of you might know about from my tumblr (p-ercolating) ! I'm super excited for both that and to pick Dovetail right back up. sorry for leaving u guys hanging for....four months. eep.
> 
> lov u !
> 
> hxl


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> question: how many times can i crawl out of the grave before i get shoved back in for good LOL

Over the course of that weekend, a number of events occur, and between Michael finally making a conscious effort in pulling himself together, Gavin maybe a little too actively pulling himself apart, and Geoff having a none too small crisis of his own at home, the “Gavin later” never comes to fruition. At least, not in the manner Jeremy – or Michael, for that matter – had envisioned.

However, before any of them burns up entirely, each their very own Icarus to their flawed and very human emotions, something that already seemed fixed becomes mended.

The universe is elegant like that.

At least, that is what Ray supposes Ryan would be saying right about now if he could. Thank god he can’t, the sap.

Ray grins, snickering just a little as he watches Ryan roll around on the carpet and accidentally smash his elbow into a coffee table leg with absolutely no complaint.

“How ya feeling, Ry?”

“Mmmrrrrhhh.”

He grins wider, sucking out the last of the juice in his Capri-sun. This strikes as _hilarious_ to Ryan – the clear dissonance between his boyfriend’s grade school-esque juice box and the various drug-related paraphernalia scattered behind them on the same table Ryan jostled is evidently too much to handle.

Ryan bursts out chuckling as he reaches for Ray, pulling him down into his arms.

“C’mere, you complete moron.”

The words have no bite to them, because Ryan Haywood is high as a goddamn kite for the first time in his life, he has his cute boyfriend held against his chest, he can literally feel the stress ball from work being alleviated, and life is _excellent._

 

The same could not be said for Geoff.

“First Ray, now this,” he mumbles sadly, Griffon taking away the beer he was drinking. “That’s still half full! At least let me finish it. Babe? Griffon?”

Griffon cocks the bottle with a withering look. “ _You_ , Geoff Ramsey, are most definitely _not_ going to finish this fucking drink, because you know what you’re going to do instead?”

Geoff shrugs petulantly – it’s a slow reply, the laziest reaction he could have possibly given.

Her responding indignation came in starts and stops, like Griffon was so worked up that she didn’t know which angle to start from. First off, there was _this_ (Her eyes rake over Geoff’s frame disapprovingly). Then, there was also the fact that Michael and Gavin got into a legitimate argument outside of work that obviously didn’t end well, which by the way, Griffon had to hear through _Jeremy_ because nobody else went after Michael after the fact (“Remind me again why the fuck you sent Jeremy instead of going yourself?”), or that Geoff hasn’t really been doing anything to clear the air between them, rather actively avoiding it, and now –

“And now you’re going to drink yourself under the fucking _table_ instead of dealing with the boys?” Griffon near-shouts, voice a tad huskier than normal from heavy emotion. “They’re like your sons! Not just Gavin, but Mich-“

“You think I don’t _fucking_ know that?”

Silence rings in the air between them as they both come to a halt, stunned by how heated their exchange was becoming. The beer foam on the carpet and table sizzle quietly as Geoff crosses his arms and falls back on the couch, having stood, fists clenched against his sides, during his outburst.

The room is stifling. They realize at the same time that they forgot to open the blinds that morning.

Griffon has to take a deep breath and set the beer down before continuing. She considers opening the windows, but senses that would be too much like retreat.

She leans over the dinner table and stares at her husband, who can’t quite meet her eyes. His ears are turning red, she notices.

_I suck. Be more patient, Griffon._

“Hey,” Griffon says gently. “Babe?”

It takes a second.

Geoff’s eyes look wet when he raises his head. “Yeah?”

It breaks Griffon’s heart, that lurch of guilt in her chest for taking out her anger out on him, saying awful things. She wasn’t usually like that. Neither of them were, really.

She lets the words roll around in her mouth a bit before: “Sorry for ripping on you. It doesn’t really help, does it. I didn’t mean it like that; I know you care, and Gavin loves you too. He loves you to pieces, you know that.”

 _Michael doesn’t, though._ But Griffon keeps that to herself, swallows it down with her guilt, swallows it down with the slightly acidic taste on her tongue and general discomfort. In lieu of saying any more, she motions to the chair beside Geoff questioningly. He nods, moves over a little to accommodate his wife, who sits and throws an arm over his shoulders. She rubs his arm comfortingly.

“Sorry,” She repeats, pausing. Then, “I just don’t think drinking is the best idea right now.”

“Then tell me what is,” Geoff says, voice textured like fine sandpaper. He sniffs, clenching and unclenching his hands repeatedly as he looked down at them, half mumbling to himself, half conversing with Griffon.

“I fucked up, I think I was too, uh, dramatic about everything, I don’t fucking know why I thought they would, like, be able to work it…work it out on their own without a problem and, dicks, that it would-“

His voice is pitched astoundingly high by the time Griffon cuts him off.

She shakes her head, hair sending a gentle breeze over Geoff’s agitated frame.

“I know. But it isn’t all on you,” she says firmly, thinks back to the night Gavin and Michael showed up on their doorstep, hand in clumsy hand; thinks further back to sitting on a ratty couch and talking to Michael; thinks about Michael alone, all his friends turning their backs to him in the end, all except Ray.

“We’re all at fault,” She admits, the words sending a pang to her chest, but it’s a good pang. The kind of hurt that is akin to picking off a scab from a deep wound. “We should have sat Gavin down and told him.”

Both of them leave the obvious connotation hang in the air, unwilling to vocalize it: They did not want to deal with the immediate, inevitable aftermath of such an exchange. It was easier to ignore it.

Easy like going three years living as though nothing happened.

Easy like packing up all the hurt into a box, shoving it into a dark corner of a closet usually reserved for old shirts and moth-eaten memories.

Easy like deactivating a social media account.

Easy like getting a new phone.

Easy like a voicemail that explained nothing.

“What do we do then?” The question cuts the air razor sharp despite the tired resignation behind it.

Griffon smiles, kisses Geoff.

“We go talk to Gavin.”

 

Ray is content, but in the manner of sitting on a porch, quiet evening in the dead of night, in suburbia. It’s warm cuddling on the couch, flicking through Netflix, and yet there is a muted discomfort in his chest that he can’t quite put a finger on. He reaches for water.

Coming down from his high, Ryan also gratefully takes a gulp when Ray passes the glass to him. He runs his tongue along his teeth and makes a face.

Smirking, Ray says, “Dry mouth?”

Ryan glares but nods, getting up for more water. “Shut up, you pothead.”

“It’s not like I don’t have it either!”

“Well, _I_ have it right now, and it’s not good.”

“I never said it was good!”

Ryan shakes his head as he decides he’s going to opt for an espresso instead. A double espresso. Or a _triple._

He may have been murmuring to himself, because horror found its way onto Ray’s face by the time he got the espresso machine going. Ryan plasters an innocent look on his.

“What’s wrong, babe?”

Ray gestures wildly as if saying, _are you fucking kidding me bro_ , before he finds his words and says: “A _triple?_ There’s no such thing as a triple, Ry.”

Raising an eyebrow, Ryan finger-guns at Ray, says, “Oh, but there can be.”

Ray is flabbergasted and at least a little proud. But just a little, in some meme-filled crevice of his heart that isn’t taken up by Ryan. Maybe the two are merging. _No. Do not,_ he thinks.

Ryan’s hands are still up, eyebrow cocked like _eh? Yeah? I’m Hip And With It Now,_ and Ray almost loses it then, has to roll upright on the sofa and point accusingly at his boyfriend, suppressing laughter the whole time.

“Do not. Don’t ever do that again. That was so wrong I felt my soul leave my body for a moment. It almost didn’t return.”

“What, make a triple?”

“No, fucking _this_.” Ray mirrors Ryan’s pose, adding a little shimmy to his shoulders for good measure. Ryan’s face lights up at that, which Ray decides is not a good thing. He’s right, because next thing he knows, Ryan is showcasing all his hidden “talents”.

He even _dabs,_ for chrissake. Ray chalks it up to being exposed to him too much, and the internet, and Achievement Hunter – basically, everything surrounding Ryan in his life currently.

However, he draws a line at the dancing. He doesn’t know if his heart could take it right now, or ever.

As Ryan finally lets up to fix his unholy cup of straight espresso, Ray is tempted to run to the kitchen cabinet and slam dunk at least a dozen sugar cubes into it, but he knows Ryan would just pick him up like a child and put him on the counter opposite until he’s done.

He pouts, despite the knowledge that Ryan would still drink it, disgusting saccharin sweetness and all.

“Still mad that I’m in with it?” Ryan sips out of his mug with a smile, instantly reminding Ray of his TA days, his boyfriend (and then _teacher_ ) drinking copious amounts of coffee – black, of course – straight out of the pot. He shudders and thinks of sugar again.

“No, nah, just don’t know how you can drink that.”

Ryan makes his way back over to Ray and leans over, grinning. “It doesn’t taste all that bad. You’re just…it’s an acquired taste.” Before Ray can fire back, Ryan shoots, “And you’re still judging me for coffee when you smoke?”

 _Aaaaaaand there it is._ Ray winces, that uncomfortable feeling welling up in his chest again. “Ry, I told you, it’s not a big deal. We’ve talked about this. Plus, dude, you tried it today and it was fine, right? It’s not like-“ He stops.

“It’s not like what?” The couch cushions jostle as Ray rearranges himself so Ryan can sit again.

Ray opens and closes his mouth before putting his head in his hands, a faint “ugh” emanating from the cracks between his fingers. “We were having a good time, too.”

He feels Ryan gently prying his hands off, cup his face in his hands, all concerned, clear blue eyes, and espresso. Ray loves it. He doesn’t want to be gross about it, but fuck. It hits him a lot, this sentimentality. Mainly post-high.

God, he loves Ry so much he can’t believe they’re real and here and this is happening.

Ray replies reluctantly, slowly, “It’s not like I’m Gavin and I’m taking hits so I can party hard and fuck strangers.” Then, softer, “Not that he does it anymore, or I’m holding it against him.”

Ryan looks like he does though, when Ray meets his eyes, and it makes his gut turn again, the feeling bleeding into all the affection. That’s when the realization slams into Ray with all the might of his worst insecurities accumulated over the years: He feels so inferior to Ryan. And _such_ a wreck. _Oh man, what a fucking shitty juxtaposition._

Suddenly, he feels like a kid in his boyfriend’s arms. That’s what it feels like a lot of the time, actually. Ryan has his shit together; he has a steady job – actually, if you count AH, and Ray does, two; he is calm and so put together almost always; he’s so _good._  

Ray ignores the sudden déjà vu that runs through him. Somewhere deeper down, he thinks, _I’ve heard that excuse before._

And also, _Didn’t turn out that well for them._

He pushes all of that aside because ultimately, he will always prioritize his immediate comfort, future consequences be damned. (See? Again. Childish.)

Mapping out his escape, Ray announces very loudly that he has to go to the washroom (“Number two, please don’t come in, I want to poop in peace”) and makes a beeline for it, locking the door behind him. He leaves a very confused Ryan in his wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> too fast-paced???? too slow-paced??? things will pick up either way very, very soon. hyyype. (or maybe no hype, please, I don't know when I'll be back) lost my phone this past week so some phrases and scenes I've been itching to use have been Lost To The Void - you'll just have to bear with me. so.....like usual.
> 
> thank you as always for reading!!!!!


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( ^:
> 
> haven't had a chapter to themselves in a while, so here we r

When Ray comes out of the washroom, Ryan is sitting on their bed, glasses in his fidgety hands. He watches him absentmindedly wipe at a dirt speck with his thumb.

“Dude, cleaner. Use the cleaner. I bought like, twelve the other week.”

Ray takes the glasses out of Ryan’s hands.

“And don’t tell me you’ve lost all of them again, _already_.”

Ryan doesn’t come back with a quip like _oddly domestic of you,_ or _it was just a small bit,_ or even just _aw, babe. C’mon._ Instead, Ray is surprised by Ryan’s sudden grip on his thin wrist, more or less forcing them to meet eyes.

Ray hates these types of situations. He fucking hates it. Like something is about to happen, and that _something_ is going to take energy to maneuver.

He especially hates it when he’s pretty goddamn sure he’s going to get it wrong.

“If you don’t stop scratching at your lens you’re gonna wind up blind one day,” he jokes lightheartedly, tone belying his nervousness. “Not that you’re not already.”

Ryan’s gaze is unwavering, and Ray can feel his face starting to heat up.

“Are you okay?” Ryan says quietly, gently; he gives no outward indication that he heard any of what Ray said earlier. “You don’t seem okay.”

_Shit!!!!_

He did not expect him to ask outright.

But then again, this is _Ryan._

“Dude, what part of me doesn’t seem okay?”

This statement preludes an especially awkward moment when Ray less than kindly jerks his wrist away to do a double peace sign that isn’t taken as well as Ray would’ve liked.

Ryan frowns, plucks his glasses out of Ray’s now precarious grasp.

“I don’t know, maybe the part where you ran for your life, babe.”

Lowering his hands slowly, Ray gulps.

“I was just going to the washroom, like I said -“

And of course that doesn’t work.

“Jesus, Ray,” Ryan sighs as he gets up, glasses already back on his face, suddenly far too close for comfort. This elicits a weak _that’s me, Jésus_ , but not much else. Ray abruptly thinks back to a dorm hallway, college life.

_Do you think that we should date? I think we should date._

Yeah, Ryan has always been a million times more straightforward than he will ever be.

Since it’s apparent that Ray won’t be contributing much to the conversation, Ryan simply holds him, running his fingers through his dark hair comfortingly. There’s something about how Ray is standing that is mildly reminiscent of a dead fish and Ryan has to cough lightly to dispel the mental imagery lest he starts chuckling, which he suspects would ruin the moment.

Just like how he suspects that Ray hasn’t been fine for a while, since Michael came back. It’s not like Ray is the type to have late night deep talks, spill his soul.

“You just have to bottle all this stuff up, don’t you?” Ryan murmurs, sensing Ray turn stiff at the accusation.

And yes, Ray is awful at dealing with actual conversation, discussions about things that matter. Ryan know this. Ryan currently doesn’t care.

“Ray, what did I say wrong? I want to know. I’m not saying it’s wrong to not want to talk about it, but I don’t like it when I have no idea what’s going on.”

Dead fish Ray quickly becomes alive, drowning fish Ray in half a second as he begins vehemently protesting, firmly planting his palms against Ryan’s chest and shoving his boyfriend backwards.

Then, contradictorily, “You didn’t do anything wrong!”

Ryan makes a baffled noise as Ray huffs, agitated. “I mean, it- not really. It’s just me.” Ray’s volume lowers. “You know, uh, yeah. I’m being stupid.”

“Okay…”

But that was it. That’s all Ray had. He shrugs, uncomfortable.

“Can we talk about why you’re being stupid then? Like functional human beings in a healthy relationship?”

A snort. “You mean, _not_ like Michael and Gavin?”

Ryan sits again, throwing his hands up. “Well, I wasn’t going to go there. In addition, they’re not in a relationship right now…and lastly, please, can we get back on this topic? As adu-“

And there it is again.

“I don’t-“ Ray shakes his head, disbelieving that his boyfriend rebuked him in _essay format,_ three argument structure and all.

“You don’t?”

“I don’t feel l-like an adult. I don’t feel like we’re dating sometimes. I just feel like a dumb dude trying to keep up with someone who’s like, not a mess? And, and, and I just- I-“

He would rather die right now; he doesn’t know what came over him. Mortification might take him regardless. But then Ryan is all coffee warm and closeness again, and suddenly it doesn’t matter. Throat stuffy, Ray balls his hands up in Ryan’s shirt.

“I really, _really_ like you. And I’m scared I’m not good enough for you.”

The words come out in a tumble, sixty percent coherent at best, but Ryan understands.

“Hey now, woah.” He grabs Ray’s trembling frame, resists the urge to pull Ray into his arms again, knows it won’t help. His boyfriend’s eyes are alarmingly wet, and Ryan has to think for a very long second as to how to do this properly.

He lets go.

“First off,” Ryan starts, and his crisp, low voice in the hanging silence makes Ray flinch ever so slightly; the foreboding feeling welling up in his gut is an ominous undertow waiting for one wrong move, and Ray is scared he jeopardized their relationship over something he could have kept his mouth shut over.

Ryan actually looks nervous as well, which makes Ray progressively inch closer to terrified, and as he watches Ryan cross his arms defensively, he considers – and not for the first time in the time they’ve known each other either – jumping out the window.

He doesn’t get the chance before Ryan continues, stuttery and ever so faintly red.

“God, you really don’t know how much I love you. You’ve been- I know we haven’t been doing stellar, but the way you took care of- _take_ care of Michael? Never mentioned how awesome you’ve been, especially with how much of an idiot I was being at the time, either.”

Ryan stares intently at Ray. His stance is less rigid now, more intense and open.

“I’m an idiot too. Don’t sell yourself short. Ray, you’re nothing but good for me.”

Ray swallows, stomach flipping.

“Now come here. Please.”

 

* * *

 

 

Ray doesn’t know why Ryan insists that they meet on the campus he lectures at. Walking around clutching his backpack straps, he feels more like a freshman than anything else, like he’s smack-dab back in post-secondary again.

He shudders. Ugh.

“Bad times,” he mutters to himself, adjusting his glasses. _Some good times too though._

Speaking of, his phone buzzes a second after, earlier than he expected:

[4:11:35 PM] Ry: come to CONN2590  
[4:11:38 PM] Ry: take the first set of stairs from the entrance and turn left. first door on the left past the bathroom

Ray hitches an eyebrow, confused. He thought they were meeting in their usual spot, an inconspicuous bench close to the building where Ryan’s office is.

[4:13:01 PM] Ray: like…to the lecture hall?  
[4:13:02 PM] Ray: dude.  
[4:13:09 PM] Ray: no

[4:16:39 PM] Ry: It’s fine, they’re not going to arrest you for showing up

[4:16:52 PM] Ray: what class is this again?

[4:17:59 PM] Ry: Advanced Mechanical Physics II

“Jesus.” Ray knows he’s going to look like a fucking fool waltzing in there, but it’s fine. It’s fine. He’s going to be a great, _mature_ boyfriend like Ryan kept affirming last night and go to Ryan despite every nerve in his body screaming to just lay down on the pavement he’s currently walking on and evaporate.

[4:21:22 PM] Ray: TIME TO GET ARRESTED

That said, when Ray pushes through the door to the lecture hall, the only emotion he really feels is not debilitating anxiety but rather utter betrayal, as in, _Ryan is still lecturing and there are two hundred eyes on me right now._

He can’t leave now. He’s been seen.

Ray starts walking stiffly towards a seat near the front, wincing as he squeezes past people in the tight aisles between each row. He’s acutely aware of Ryan’s eyes boring into him.

_I hate him. I hate him. I fucking hate him, oh my god._

To be fair, Ryan wraps up less than five minutes after that, although Ray realizes that makes it extra _extra_ weird that he just came in; that in itself accounts for the staring. (Ray, having never been to a class late before, does not realize that the staring is a normal part of large lecture hall studies; he either went to class or slept, there was no in between)

Ray breathes out a sigh of relief and stands with the rest as he hears Ryan call out, “And have a good one, don’t forget quizzes due Sunday!” over the sound of shuffling bodies and other miscellaneous crap.

But then, to Ray’s surprise, a number of students do not file out, but rather queue up to where Ryan is standing.

“Right, questions.” Ray murmurs, rubbing his hair and feeling foolish. He laughs to himself quietly at the thought of lining up behind everyone else. _I would certainly fit in._ The idea is equal parts amusing and unappealing.

He hangs back near the wall and watches, having not much choice except waiting it out. He counts at least a dozen students. _Advanced something something Physics III sounds pretty hard,_ Ray decides, reasoning. _It has numbers. And the word_ advanced.

_I would never pass this class._

“Waiting for someone too?”

A voice startles him, causing him to whip about. “Wh..?”

It came from a girl with platinum blonde hair offset by a soft side buzzcut, bag slung across her chest. Ray kind of wants the beanie she’s wearing. But then he registers that he didn’t reply to her question and fumbles, noting her slightly annoyed expression.

“Uh, yeah, guess you could say that?”

She smiles, rolling her eyes. “I get it. My friend is literally only going up to Haywood to touch his arm or something, I swear. She has a straight 90 in this class. She’s doing more than fine.”

Ray’s heart jumps. “Does that…does that happen a lot?”

“With her? Oh, yeah. Doesn’t give a shit about other people in her program but noooo when it comes to Mech Phys, it’s Ryan this, Haywood that…”

Ray didn’t ask that question for specifics – he asked in a much broader sense, but he’ll take what he can get. Now that he’s really looking, he can pick out a couple people in queue who seem far too eager to talk, rather than, y’know, desperate for an answer, or explanation, or extension, or something that exists purely in the realm of academia.

“Not that I can really blame her, I mean, _look_ at the prof.”

Ray can’t believe he winds up spending at least a handful of minutes of his afternoon admiring his boyfriend from afar with this random girl he’s never seen in his life, who’s probably at least five years his junior.

Ryan is animated as he talks to his student, eyes lit. Ray doubts he notices the way that she’s looking at him. Ryan knows full well he’s attractive. However, when he’s in a mode, he sticks with it, and right now, he’s _Professor_ Haywood.

(Not that it stopped him when he was _Teaching Assistant Please-Call-Me-Ryan_ )

Ray clears his throat.

“Anyways, I have to…I have to go.”

“Oh? Okay, see you…”

The girl cocks her head questioningly as Ray marches towards the line with determination in his stride, rather than away from it.

Ryan is raising an eyebrow at him, the fucker; there’s the beginnings of a smirk on his face, and Ray’s face lights up like a Christmas ornament. _He’s totally just messing with me._

“Hey bro, not cool, get in line.”

Taking a deep breath, Ray turns and crosses his arms, hoping to high heaven he doesn’t appear as defensive as he feels – which is about as defensive as a cornered animal, honestly. He’s angry and protective all at once, and he wants the girl currently all over his boyfriend to Stop That Immediately. He doesn’t care that she’s waving a textbook in Ryan’s face. All he sees is the manicured hand on Ryan’s bicep, her face far too close to his.

 _That’s_ my _bicep,_ Ray thinks sullenly.

“I’m not your bro, and please don’t tell me to get in line ever again. You’ll only embarrass the both of us more. But mainly you. Trust me.”

This would have been a hell of a lot more convincing if Ray’s ears weren’t such a deep crimson. For a second, he almost thinks that he’s going to start a fight on a college campus that he hates. After he’s already graduated.

The next thought is: He can’t fight for shit.

Luckily, just before the guy is about to throw hands, a weight settles on Ray’s shoulders and he feels the familiar tickle of stubble on his right cheek.

“You really should listen to Ray, Shane. Or else you’ll _really_ be asking for it then. Didn’t you mention wanting an extension on that project proposal the other week?”

The guy named Shane looks affronted but mollified by the fact that Ray wasn’t in fact there to snipe his place in line. Priorities.

Of course, Ryan has to incense Shane again by meeting eyes with Ray and saying, “Narvaez, I’ve been waiting for you to come to office hours for a while now. Your marks don’t look so good, think you need some extra….help?”

 _He’s completely fucking messing with me,_ Ray thinks furiously, wanting to slap his hands over his face and make a run for it. Ryan is cementing him in place though. _Should I reply normally? Should I go with it?_

_????????????????????_

Ryan saves them all from his concocted fuckery before his image is permanently tarnished.

Although, Ray is beginning to think that Prof. Haywood isn’t exactly the poster child for tenure. He doesn’t know why he assumed so in the first place, given how he was when he TA’d.

“Oh, by the way guys, sorry that I have to wrap up early today. I owe my _boyfriend_ here a dinner date” – he accentuates this with a kiss on Ray’s cheek – “and you know how the traffic gets downtown. Email me! Can’t promise I’ll reply sober though, at least today. Office hours are back to normal on Monday.”

With a wink that makes a single girl squeak and several guys outraged (including Shane, _especially_ Shane), Ryan quickly scoops up his bag and whisks Ray away before any further commotion could ensue.

In the hallway, Ray is sputtering.

“You- wh- Ryan, Ry, _please don’t do that-_ “

Ryan shuts him up with a kiss on the mouth, all the while grinning widely.

“Sorry, you know I can’t resist. I wanted to make a point that I _like_ making fun of you and that I find you very cute like this. I didn’t know the maturity thing was a point of contention, ok?” Ryan pauses. “Besides, I don’t see how any of this is very mature of me either. Let me know if I get out of hand.”

“You already have,” Ray mutters, but threads his fingers with Ryan’s and squeezes tightly.

Ryan’s laughter echoes down the hall, causing a couple students to look back. If they are surprised by Ryan and Ray, their faces don’t show it. However, the ringtone in Ryan’s bag and accompanied buzz of Ray’s phone brings this to a quick halt.

For a moment, everything is suspended.

Then it all comes crashing down.

People start looking concerned following Ryan’s shout of _WHAT?_ and some even begin heading in their general direction as he immediately gets back on the phone, punching in numbers at record speed. Ray doesn’t particularly care about the attention they’re getting anymore, mainly because it was Geoff who called in a panic, hoarse as anything.

It was to tell them that Gavin is missing.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heh


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello fam, I know my usual a/ns are pretty uhhhhhh incoherent and/or otherwise easy to skip over, but this is a heavy chapter and I want u guys to be safe!!!
> 
> In any case:
> 
> **Strong warnings for self-harm this chapter.**

**_24 hours ago_ **

Gavin stays at work late, dwindling and wandering aimlessly until every single person leaves for home and there is nobody left to bother. Apart from an out-of-character outburst when his webcam shuts down mid-recording, he doesn’t think anyone noticed he was having a less than stellar day – a less than stellar week.

But he has always been good at faking it. Can’t recall the last time he wasn’t.

“Gavin, still here? The fuck? Go home.”

This startles Gavin out of his reverie and he bolts upright in his chair to automatically call out cheerfully. “No worries, just doing some cheeky evening editing, yeah? Catch you tomorrow!” He’s all gangly limbs and smiles as Burnie shrugs with exasperation as if to say _oh, Gavin_ and disappears from view.

“Jesus,” Gavin mutters, shaking his head faintly, and just like that, the happiness is wiped from his face, posture, everything. He leans forward with his head between his knees. “I feel like shiiiiiiiiiite.”

The heaviness settles in the base of his skull and the soles of his feet and he has never felt more fatigued and awful in his life. It was a gradual creep, a patient thing. Then this morning hit full force and it took all of Gavin’s mental strength to essentially function. It was a trying day – every fibre of his being wanted to scream _I am trying very hard to be here right now_ to each and every person he encountered and was forced to interact with – but this happens sometimes, as bothersome as it is.

It’s not like this has anything to do with the empty chair next to him.

Gavin’s phone buzzes and he ignores it because he knows it won’t be who he wants to talk to, knows it won’t be Michael Jones.

(Yeah, it’s exactly like that.)

But! He perks up because trusty Turney will come through – she was worried about him earlier today because she knew, of course she did, and thus she agreed to have bevs with him tonight (a healthy amount, with her definition of healthy, she promised) so he would have someone to keep him company in the evening. This alone is enough to propel Gavin out of his chair and finally get an Uber home.

He even decides to prep dinner, and for a second he forgets to worry about how to succinctly explain to Turney what exactly has been _wrong_ apart from the glaringly obvious, which he is neither willing nor planning to address today _._

It has always been like this; it’s a number of small tragedies, worthless slights. It’s like the moment he wakes up from a night’s sleep, he knows – the sun is too bright, the texture of the duvet on his skin is all wrong. Everything has an overcast tinge to it and _Christ,_ does time feel slow. But this isn’t something you can explain and have someone understand.

Not fully, anyways. Never fully.

Throwing utensils into the dishwasher, Gavin grimaces.

The silence in his apartment feels fabricated, thick and tense enough to grab by the fistful. He feels like absolute garbage and it doesn’t alleviate the feeling no matter how many times he states it to himself. Like saying _I do believe in Santa_ and the jolly prick never appearing.

_I might as well lock myself in the loo and say “Michael Jones” three times in the mirror and hope the boy clips into existence again._

Gavin didn’t know Michael would have such a strong reaction to, well, _Gavin’s_ reaction to…yeah. Then again, Gavin thinks bemusedly, he’s hard to predict, hotheaded and full of heart one moment and completely flat the next.

His breath hitches traitorously and Gavin chides himself for being so ridiculous.

“It’s not a _good_ thing he wants to murder you, fool. That doesn’t prove anything! Doesn’t prove he cares…” His voice trails off.

Gavin doesn’t like this, how much he’s over-analyzing.

_Where the bloody hell is Turney?_

He doesn’t hear from her for ages and ages even after that and when he does at last, his insides immediately hollow out and begin to ache. _She can’t make it._ Panic is in his fingertips as he texts back furiously, conversing in a far more argumentative manner than he would usually, contrasting his usual laid-back, agreeable self.

But he finds himself fighting a losing battle and answers her phone call if only to swallow her heartfelt apologies painfully. Her voice comes through the receiver all genuine apologies and…you know, the way only Turney can sound. Gavin barely hears any of it.

“I’m so, so sorry Gavin, I’ll make it up to you! I swear! We’ll have a sangria night and you can tell me everything. Tomorrow? Right after work?”

He gives her an ambiguous reply and monotonously wishes her a good night out, failing to mention that he needs her right now.

He even fakes a smile because it shows in his voice more effectively that way, and pretends it’s all alright because it wasn’t like he was looking forward to this, it’s not like he was relying on this to get him through the rest of the day or anything.

“Fuck,” he mutters as he sets the phone down on the counter, mostly to steady himself, and the thoughts are already swirling into view.

_Come off it,_ his internal voice sneers. _Don’t act like such a pussy when you’re facing facts._

Gavin clenches his fists and resolutely stares at the browning mushrooms on the kitchen table, pretends to not hear himself. How ridiculously fruitless of an endeavour is that?

_You do your best and force it when you have to but people can tell. They can’t put a finger on it but they know and it makes them uneasy. Nobody will ever put you first, you fool. You’re “fun” to be around and a good laugh but then what?_

_At the end of the day, you’ll never be someone’s first choice. You’ll never have anything as whole and genuine as a real relationship._

An unintended gasp that is three quarters pain and one quarter fear finds its way through Gavin’s teeth and he can’t, he can’t, he can’t.

_You’re not even good enough as a friend. As anything, really._

“But it’s hard to be anything,” Gavin says pleadingly, loudly as though that makes it a stronger rebuttal, but he find himself unable to finish his own sentence except in his head:

_Yeah, it’s hard when you hate anything you are._

_Every damn layer of it._

He’s not really hungry anymore so he dumps everything from the chopping board into a single bowl and shoves it back in the fridge, not bothering to cover it.

It’s always a show, even if it’s only himself for an audience, he’s well aware. It’s not like half the things he just mixed in will still be good to eat tomorrow. It’s not like he’s going to cook that ever. It’s not like he doesn’t know damn well that as soon as he opens the fridge again he’s going to chuck it all out.

But that’s just how it is.

Gavin washes his hands.

By the time it truly sinks in that Turney isn’t coming, his hands are shaking badly and he doesn’t know how he’s going to keep it together without drinking himself unconscious because _shit,_ it was worse than he initially thought. But he has neither the booze nor the energy to interact with anyone as himself, unfiltered and awful, so he’s stuck.

Gavin looks at his phone again and it’s only five-thirty. It’s ridiculous to entertain the idea of going to sleep right now, but he would if he was even a hair short of completely awake.

So with sleeping the rest of the night away out of the question, at this point Gavin is more than desperate enough to call someone, _anyone,_ to keep him company - he is so bloody terrified of the heaviness percolating through his bones and veins, down to the smallest segment and thinnest capillary. It threatens to suffocate him in lieu of a reminder of its constant presence, violent and jarring, and that it has grown tired of being merciful.

The more he tries to calm down the worse his anxiety spikes at not being able to do so.

_It hasn’t been this bad in ages._ He doesn’t remember how he got through things that were _this bad_ , and his fear goes stronger. The anxious pangs in the gut continue to land blow by blow.

It’s appropriate, then, that Gavin finds himself curled up in a near-fetal position at the base of his bed, having retreated to a space of at least some comfort as he sits alone, as he faces the reality of the situation:

Dan’s line is busy. Has been for the past thirty minutes.

His innocuous texts to Griffon and Geoff asking what they’re up to go unanswered.

He calls Ryan a bit after that and completely regrets it when the man picks up high, all laughter and warmth and god knows what else as he smothers Ray in hugs while (unsuccessfully) trying to pay attention to what Gavin was saying. The affection thick in Ryan’s throat drenches Gavin second-hand and Christ, does it hurt.

Gavin doesn’t really bother with a parting word before hanging up unceremoniously. It bothers him knowing that Ryan probably doesn’t give half a crap that he did, either.

His last handful of attempts to reach out go to Barbara, Jack, Jeremy, and Dan again, in that order.

Comes out empty.

Gavin’s eyes dart to his phone and he considers very, very briefly if it would be a good idea to call Michael Jones.

_Jesus, Gavin Free. Haven’t you done enough?_

A laugh tumbles from his mouth without meaning to. The sound is pitched and harsh even to his own ears. Of course everyone’s busy, and what a _stupid_ idea that would be. Of course literally everyone has someone except him and _fuck_ , he’ll never be that important to anyone. _Least of all-_

Gavin can barely finish the thought before everything starts to spin and his stomach does an awful, painful lurch.

He slumps.

For some reason, it always ends like this for him. Doesn’t matter if it’s after a friends’ night out or a nice lay, if it was a productive, toppity work day or if it was a glorious weekend that ended in bevs and good conversation. It always winds down the same, with Gavin getting out of a car at his address and fumbling for the keys as he heads for the door.

It always ends up with Gavin sitting alone in his apartment in the dying light.

The thrum in his veins is stronger now – so violent it is rocking through his entire thin frame. He would cry if he could. He would do a lot of things differently if he could.

Instead he plugs in his headphones and digs in his bottom bedside drawer until fingers hit the wood panel at the very back. A little more fumbling feels out a tiny envelope, beige and battered. The uneven weight of it is more parts unfamiliar than familiar in his hands and for a moment, he hesitates.

The guilt on his tongue is distasteful; it’s the flavour of neon glow and surprised looks and the crimson shade of a red traffic light. (Surprised? No, that doesn’t make sense. _Disappointed._ )

For a second, he sees a figure standing in the corner of his eye, emanating shock and something else entirely, but of course there’s nobody there.

“Great, now I’m hallucinating too,” Gavin mutters.

He knows what Geoff would say if he found out - _he doesn’t have to find out –_ and he knows how shitty he’s going to feel tomorrow after the fact – _I feel like shite regardless_ – and not to mention how irritating circumnavigating- _Christ, to hell with all of that, I_ need _this right now._

_I’m not relapsing,_ he decides resolutely, thumbing the outline of the envelope flap. _I’m choosing this and it isn’t a wrong choice because there isn’t a wrong choice. Choosing. It’s choosing._

Full of nervous energy, he turns the volume of his music up high enough to throttle his eardrums and whatever misgivings that remain finally dissipate.

_And only for a little bit._

Gavin closes his eyes and swallows as he rips the envelope open, dumps its contents out.

_Just a bit._

He gives his phone one last glance. Then he reaches for the blade.

 

* * *

 

 

Gavin comes back to full focus the next morning to soothing warmth and a complimentary stinging pain. Oh, and his phone ringing in the living room. Right.

He doesn’t really remember running himself a warm bath, but then again, he doesn’t remember going to sleep either. He frowns, hoping he didn’t pass out in the tub.

“Bad for the skin,” Gavin murmurs with a half-smile, the irony not lost on him.

Rather, it is amplified when he climbs out dripping and the stinging becomes sharper with the cold air hitting his hip. Bending over to let the water out hurts. Straightening back up hurts. Standing hurts.

_And it’s good._

As he towels himself dry, he can’t help but look down and gently run his fingertips over the slightly raised, neat little lines hatched over his old scars. The touch is comfortingly real, but it puts a faint twist in Gavin’s gut anyways, as if to say _ah…right. That did happen_. But apart from that, he feels practically nothing at all, and it is equally worrisome as it is elating.

Gavin realizes he didn’t call into work sick today either, which must be why he has two missed calls from Geoff (in quick succession one after the other, 9:35am and 9:38am), and a more recent one from Griffon (11:52am).

Ruffling his wet hair with one gelled hand, Gavin snorts and tosses the phone aside with the other after one quick look. It’s stupid, he knows, stupid _and_ petty, but he doesn’t care right now. Geoff can’t choose when to be concerned about him, never mind how this stuff is probably work-related. The awful side of him is only noting how Geoff never texted him back and while Griffon did, it’s time-stamped this morning around the same time as her call was placed, to ask where he was.

A rush of vertigo washes through Gavin all of a sudden and while he’s not paying attention, that horrible part of him – not so much usually forgotten as abandoned – settles comfortably into his skin and kicks everything else to the curb.

He has to blink rapidly to dispel the dizziness that lingers after, and during this time the majority of him agrees that it’s probably because he hasn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon. A much more minuscule piece is shrouded in doubt but it’s quickly shaken off.

He’s very much aware this thrill that’s making his blood pump fast is dangerous. It’s a feeling from another time, another age. His thoughts flit to Michael, and that settles it.

“Yeah nah, no work for me today,” Gavin says to himself, already feeling lighter, looser. He shrugs on a jacket over his shirt and jeans before showing the minimal courtesy to his de facto parents by texting back.

[12:09:42 PM] Gav: out

Then he grabs a handful of twenties and fifties and is out the door, water dripping from the tips of his still-damp hair.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tbqh? wrote a lot of this while h*** and fucked up so like.... (^:
> 
> I've been wanting to write this specific segment for a while now. (Some of it had been written nearly a year ago.) Want to discuss the current chap w me? [Please come yell @ me here xx](http://p-ercolating.tumblr.com/)


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